Weight
by Praxid
Summary: S3 AU: Daryl didn't know how long ago it was-he only counted time in seasons, nowadays. But it was a long time ago. The people he was with found a prison. He thought he'd make it a home. But it didn't work out. He left when he found Merle-and he didn't come back. They went out into the woods, alone. They stayed there some twenty years, before Daryl found a reason to leave, again.
1. Resting Place

_Hey there guys! I'm back with a new story! I need to put Full of Grace on hiatus for a while, but I wanted to keep active and I've had this new idea in my head for a couple months, now. It's just too difficult to write FOG at the moment-but I plan to come back to it in the summer. Instead, I'll do this AU that diverges from S3's "Home"-Daryl and Merle don't return to the prison after the others refuse to let Merle join them, there. They go off on their own. _

_If you don't know what a "dugout" is, it's a dirt shelter people often used during pioneer days. You dig a hole into a hill. It can have a roof of dirt and sod that you roll back over the living space. It's a lot like a do-it-yourself cave. I hope that clears any confusion-it's kind of an esoteric thing!_

_Anyway, as always, enjoy. I'm really liking this so far. It's been a pleasure._

* * *

_Chapter One: Resting Place_

Daryl stared up at the dirt ceiling hanging over his head—in the dark space of the dugout shelter he and Merle called home.

There was a worm working through that ceiling, this morning—he could see a little, fleshy tendril up there, wriggling around. Trying to make its way out from a crack in one of the support beams. As he watched, it got a grip on a tangle of roots dripping down into the living space. Grown through from the sod he and Merle had used to make the roof, all those years ago.

He was still a little groggy. The light from the doorway looked even darker than usual. And so Daryl almost rolled back onto his side to go back to sleep.

But a peal of thunder rolled out… deep and low. It swelled into a growl that shook the deer hides he was sleeping on. Shook the hardpack dirt floor underneath them.

Rain. Rain was coming.

The worm was wrapped around one of those roots, now—a thin clump of them that reminded Daryl of white, tangled hair. And Daryl—he figured it must've sensed the rain coming. Rain made those things antsy. Made them wiggle around and try to escape before the damp ground smothered them.

But _this_ worm had it all wrong. The stupid damn thing was going the wrong way. Burrowing down, not up.

All at once, it fell. Landed on the floor—between Daryl's makeshift bed and the one where Merle was still sleeping.

He sat up. Gently scooped up the worm, and held in his hand. And he looked at it, a moment, before getting up. He'd put it outside, in some brush. Somewhere sheltered-so the rain wouldn't get to it, and it wouldn't drown. Somewhere that'd make sure Merle wouldn't step on it, when he finally decided to get up for the day.

Merle. He was out cold, over there. Rolled over on one side. Just a lump of dirty, ancient camp blankets and untanned furs.

The thunder rolled out, again. Deep and low. It swelled louder, a moment, then faded away.

* * *

Daryl went out to take a piss.

He pushed his way through the oiled canvas they'd hung over the doorway—to keep the wind and wet out. The cold, in the winter. And he kept going, through thick brush they let grow over it all—to hide the entrance, in case anyone managed to make it this far, and got it in their heads to go looking at a place that wasn't theirs.

The thunder broke, again—bright and fast, like a gunshot. There was a flash of light in the dark sky. The ground shook, before the sound faded away in a low rumble. The kind of rumble that got in your bones.

Daryl's fingers were a little sore. His knees. The arthritis, kicking up.

This storm meant business.

And as the thunder calmed down and got quiet, he _still _couldn't hear anything from inside the dugout. Merle wasn't rustling around in there, even after that.

His brother could always sleep like the dead.

Daryl knelt down—grunted as his knees complained—and he laid the worm in the tangled scrub at the side of the door. It'd be safe there. Wouldn't drown, or get crushed under Merle's boot. And he walked off down the old, dirt path to the creek—one worn down by their boots, over the years. And he thought about the worm as he did it.

_Look out for yourself, little buddy._

And then, a third roll of thunder—long and low. Softer, but deeper. Like a hand wrapping around you, and squeezing.

* * *

He pissed in the bushes, a little ways from the water.

As he did it, Daryl got to thinking. He'd dreamed something, in the night. It was coming back a bit, now that he was out in the fresh air. It got so you felt a bit suffocated, back in the dugout. It was so small and close, underground, that the air got bad.

But the dream. It was a grassy yard, with shade trees, here and there. Sunlight on the lawn. Tree branches, silhouetted over it—swaying in a gentle wind.

And a farmhouse, in the distance. White, with peeling paint. A few tents, just at his side. Flimsy things. Nylon canvas, with the panels in bright colors—all reds and blues and yellows. And people. A _lot_ of people, from the sound of them talking all around him, where he was sitting in a lawn chair. Eight—or even nine, maybe. Chatting over breakfast. He could hear knives and forks, scraping on plates.

That was weird. He really didn't dream of people, much. Other than Merle, Daryl hadn't seen another human being for at least ten years.

But in the dream, someone came up to him. A shadow got close, and leaned over him.

Things started to get fuzzy, then. Even when he looked up at that shape, it was all a blur. But it was a woman. He knew that, somehow. Remembered it, from all those years ago.

As she moved, the sunlight fell across her chest. And for just a moment, the light glinted against a delicate cross, hanging on a chain, before it faded away.

* * *

Daryl leaned over the creek. Splashed some water on his face, and took a drink. Didn't look at his reflection in the water, as he did it. The current moved fast down here, anyway—anything you saw in it would be distorted like some ever-changing, funhouse mirror. But even where it moved smooth and clean and wide, Daryl didn't really look. Didn't really know what he looked like, nowadays.

Didn't care.

He was just focused on what he had to do, that morning. There was no real worrying about anything else, when you were out in the wild.

Today, Hunting was out of the question—the rain hadn't started falling yet, but from the sound of things, it was going to—and pretty fucking hard. He might just have time to go check the snares before it really started pissing down. Might have a rabbit in one of those. And that could make for a good enough dinner.

He didn't even think about walkers. Stopped looking for them years ago. Hadn't seen one for a good, long time—almost as long as it'd been since he'd seen any other people. It was safe, way up here in the mountains—not like the towns and cities off in the wider world.

He and Merle—they'd come up here 'cause of that. Felt they could build a life for themselves—one that was better than anyone else could offer, down below.

Daryl wasn't even sure how many years it'd _been_, now, since they'd made this place their home. Somehow, he lost track of anything but the seasons, passing by. But he knew it wasn't long after he'd left the group he'd been with, back in those days.

They had a prison they took from the dead. And Daryl thought he'd stay there, and set it up to live in, with those others. But it didn't go that way. When he found his brother, the others wouldn't let him join up. Didn't want him back at that prison.

So the two of them—they did the only thing they _could_ do. They moved on.

Daryl remembered leaving them, that last time—though the details were a little fuzzy, now. Merle had his arm around him, as he looked back at those people. He couldn't remember their faces too well, at this late date—but he knew they'd watched him leave. The leader especially—_Rick_. Rick, he lingered. Looked into the trees, while he and his brother walked away.

And Daryl and Merle—they just kept on walking. Went out far and deep. Ended up here—dug their home into the side of the hill, in one of the hidden corners of the Blue Ridge mountains.

But all that was the past. He shrugged the thoughts of it away. Made his way back to the dugout. Had to go wake up Merle's ugly ass.

He shouldn't have to do all today's work alone.

Still... it was weird that the others came to mind like that. Somehow, that dream must've kicked it all up in his head. Like mud from the bottom of the creek. It'd make the water murky a moment, then the current would clear it away.

* * *

Daryl took the long way back to the dugout. Checked some snares they'd put out—all empty.

He kept jabbing at his gumline with his tongue, as he did it. He'd had to pull a tooth the other day—it'd starting aching so bad, he couldn't leave it be any longer. And the fleshy hole it left behind was bugging him pretty bad _itself_. He kept poking at it with his tongue—the raw spot where it used to be.

A couple days later, the gap still tasted like blood.

Another deep rumble moved through the sky. The clouds churned.

He saw the dugout in the distance, then—off in a clearing on the slope of the hillside. If you didn't live in it, you probably wouldn't know it was even there. But Daryl knew it was there. Every contour of that hill spoke of home, to him.

And for some reason, thoughts of home made him remember his dream, again. Or just the feeling of it, now. It's hard to hold onto dreams, after you really start waking up. You forget. Daryl _knew_ he dreamed something—something good. But he couldn't get it back, now. The more he tried, the faster it fled away.

He lost the sound of the voices, and the light of the cross in the sun.

There was just something about tents. The colors of the tents—just out of the corner of his eye.

Things used to be like that. Back when no one saw a need to hide—when they made things in factories—colorful things that were meant to be seen. And those tents would've been sold in some store somewhere—on a shelf, all packed up in boxes with photos printed on them.

The photos would show happy families, probably—camping out on the Fourth of July. There'd be a picnic table with a red-checked, plastic tablecloth on it. And food. So much food. Plastic plates—bright red. Serving bowls—blue and green. Ketchup and mustard in their telltale bottles. And the tent-label family would stand around and smile at each other, surrounded by all the brightly colored things they had.

Cause people—people used to do stuff like that.

And as he got back to the dugout, he got the idea to wake Merle up, so he could tell him about what he was thinking. About the happy tent people. Was a little curious whether Merle remembered that kind of stuff, too. If he thought it was all as weird as Daryl did. Ridiculous. All those colorful, plastic things people packed up in cars and lugged off into the woods for a day or two—way back when.

He pushed through the brush, towards the door. Stopped to see if his worm friend was still around—but he was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

The dugout was really dark, compared to what was outside. Even with the rainstorm. When Daryl made his way back in, he could barely see at first. Had to let his eyes adjust.

Merle was still there—slumped over on his side, wrapped in that old army blanket, and the deer hides.

"Hey," Daryl said, stepping forward. Merle didn't move.

"Hey, Merle."

Still nothing.

Daryl stepped closer. Furrowed his brow. His eyes were getting used to things, now. He could see the dirt walls—walls they rubbed smooth with their bare hands. The small assortment of tools on a shelf made from a split log. The iron cookware—rusty, now—hanging from a nail on a sinew strap.

And Merle's hand. He could see that, too. Saw it poking through the blanket, just a little. It looked grey, in the dim light filtering through the door. Grey and still.

Daryl started to feel a little sick. Things slowed down. He waited a second, and tried again.

"Merle…?"

He kneeled down at Merle's side, then. Shoved him. Nothing.

Daryl grabbed his shoulder and pushed harder. Merle rolled over, limply. And Daryl could see his face. Looking at it, it was obvious right away.

Merle was dead.


	2. The Promise

_I'm so thrilled to have the writing bug back! This practically wrote itself. I have so much to say to you all, and I'm eager to say it. Thanks so much for all the encouragement-it's helping more than I can say._

* * *

_The Promise:_

Merle's eyes were open.

He was staring up from the floor—right through Daryl, and into some blank nothingness behind him.

A soft peal of thunder grumbled in the sky—quiet, like an afterthought. Daryl didn't hear it. He was too focused on Merle.

The front teeth were peeking out a little, from under Merle's lips. Yellow, now—and stained with little, brown streaks. A line of drool rolled down one corner of Merle's mouth, and caught in his beard.

Daryl turned away. Looked up at the dirt ceiling, and blinked back tears.

He had to deal with this. Merle was dead. He was _really_ dead. That wasn't going to change. So he tried to force himself to look at the body, again.

But he _couldn't_—because Merle's _eyes_ were open. Staring at nothing—like he'd never been alive at all.

Over the long years living in the dugout with his brother, Daryl had become an expert at avoiding things he didn't want to see. So he pushed himself up on his hands. Let out a strangled breath that was almost a sob—and made straight for the door.

* * *

When they left the group from the prison, Daryl and Merle started directly into the woods. Looted houses, when they found them—scattered here and there on quiet, country roads. And over time, they moved out deeper and deeper into the wild.

After a while, they stopped seeing so many houses. The trees got denser. Those country roads became dirt tracks.

Then there weren't any roads.

Merle led the way, that whole time—and Daryl followed. Long and far—until they came into a hidden valley, sheltered in the mountains—all sloping foothills and tangled brush.

The summer sun was hot, the day their journey ended. The cicadas were calling. They'd been walking for a week, at least. And the underbrush was so thick, out here, that they had to force their way through it. It made slow going. And Daryl wondered, a bit, why Merle wanted to keep moving, even now. Why they were heading out so deep.

There was nothing _here_.

But Merle pressed on. Hacked at the worst of the briars with a machete he pulled off a walker. And Daryl—he limply followed after him. Felt kind of numb, the whole time. Like he couldn't quite accept that this was how things went down—that he was really all the way out here, with only his brother for company. His gut kept twisting up with a strange feeling he couldn't name—a weird tension. Fear.

Like a kid who'd just run away from home.

It was high noon when the brush gave way—all at once. Merle hacked at a thick laurel tree that blocked their path. When he leaned in—pulled the broken branches apart—pure sunlight sifted through at them, from the other side.

Merle stepped forward, then. And Daryl—he followed him, still.

It was a clearing—a small, open spot on a grassy slope. From up here, you could see down into depths of the valley. A creek winked in the sunlight, off in the distance, through the trees.

Merle let his bag slide off his arm, and onto the ground. He looked around. Nodded.

Then, he smiled.

"_Here_."

Daryl came up to stand beside him. Tilted his head to the side—confused.

"… here?"

He didn't get it. There was nothing_ in _this place. Just a tangle of scrubgrass at the side of a hill.

Merle's grin widened:

"_Here_, brother—we're gonna live _here_."

Daryl looked him over—coldly apprehensive. Didn't say anything. And he half-expected Merle to jump on that—really start in on him, for that doubtful silence. But since they'd left the others… Merle'd been in a _great_ mood. He wasn't jabbing at Daryl nearly as much as usual.

He was happy about that. The cat that got the canary, as their mama used to say.

And so Merle didn't attack him, even now. Just smiled at him, wide and bright. Raised his arms, like some television preacher.

"It's _perfect_."

There was a fallen log, at the edge of the hill. Merle dropped his sermonizing, for the moment, and sat down on it. Patted the space next to him. Used that fancy prosthetic he'd set up for himself. It made a dull thudding sound on the wood.

Daryl hesitated.

But after a moment, he went to sit next to him.

Merle leaned in:

"Don't you _see_? No one'll ever _come here_, Daryl."

Then he let out a little chuckle. Then another. Then… he was laughing out loud. And at first, a quiet voice in Daryl's head told him it didn't _sound_ quite right. Somehow… there was something wrong with it.

And Daryl thought of how far they were from everything. The nearest dirt road was a day's hike from here, at least.

The prison was miles and miles and miles away.

He sighed. Let his head fall into one hand. Felt the weight of it on his palm. None of that mattered—they were here, now. It was too late. He'd made his choice.

So he forced that little, doubtful voice down into his gut. Grabbed it, held it down, and smothered it there.

That was something he'd have to keep doing, over the years. Every so often, an uncomfortable thought would pop up, and he'd have to step on it right away. Crush it before it grew any larger. He got so he didn't even think about it. He'd stamp out all sorts of things. Worries. Memories. Things he'd felt or thought sometime before all this.

He got so he was an expert at it. At those calmly premeditated, quiet little murders against parts of his own mind.

And that day—in the noontime sun, Merle looked around, and smiled that same, bright smile. Nodded to himself, and clapped Daryl on the shoulder.

"It's all good, baby brother. We're gonna be safe and sound forever."

* * *

Daryl staggered out of the dugout. Pushed through the branches, and into morning air that smelled like rain.

It wasn't falling yet—but it'd start up any moment, now. You could sense it.

He made it a few feet into their camp before his knees gave out. And he sank down on the fallen log, just at the slope of the hill. The old one, that was getting soft, by now. Splitting with age.

He and Merle liked to sit on it, every morning. Merle on the left, Daryl on the right. And they'd eat a little breakfast, together, in companionable silence.

During the day, they'd work on things, there. They'd gut animals. Scrape the hides. And in the evenings, while their dinner simmered over the campfire, they'd make arrows for the crossbow. Didn't need to talk, really—they both knew what to do. So they'd just go on and do it—handing each other the right tools at the right time. A long-practiced dance, that didn't need words.

Daryl sat there, and tried to breathe—his throat was tight. He stared down at his boots. The ashes of their evening fire were still there, in front of the log.

Merle lit that fire. The embers might still be going, if you dug your hand in.

Daryl leaned over. Let his palm hover over the ash. And sure enough, he felt a slow heat floating up from them, into the cool air.

In that moment, the clouds tore open, and the rain hit Daryl like someone threw it from a bucket. It smothered the remains of the fire in an instant—made a puddle there, before his eyes. Little dry bits of ash floated on top of the water.

The rain made a small, flooded river, that carried the ash away.

* * *

The night before—hours after they'd gone to sleep—Merle started coughing real bad. So bad that after listening to it a while, Daryl couldn't stay quiet.

"Merle…?"

Merle didn't answer at first. But the coughing stopped, the moment Daryl said his name. There was just the sound of the crickets in the grass, and Merle's ragged breathing.

Daryl waited. The smell of damp soil hovered close over his face.

"Merle… you ok?"

Still nothing. Somehow, that made Daryl nervous. So Daryl tried again:

"… Merle?"

And he heard a long, rasping wheeze, and his brother's voice, a moment later:

"Shut the fuck up, Daryl."

* * *

The third winter was the hardest.

In the mountains, it got bitterly cold. Cold so it burned your skin. Cold so Daryl thought they were going to die.

Hunting was nearly impossible. The animals weren't out. Everything alive was hidden away—waiting. Waiting for the cold to break. For spring to come.

And the two of them were just like the birds and squirrels and foxes—playing that waiting game. Waiting to see how long your stores held out. How long you could make it on the fat hanging between skin and bone.

They kept alive on roots they dug out of the frozen earth. But by what must've been January, Daryl knew they were both starving.

It was death by inches. And Daryl discovered something about dying he never knew… it could be _boring_. There was nothing to do all day. They just huddled for warmth, and listened to the blank silence outside the dugout.

They had to sleep against each other, under the same blanket. And even so, Daryl woke every morning with frost in his beard.

Late one night, the pain in his hollow stomach jolted him awake. The cold in his joints was crying agony. All he could hear was Merle breathing, at his side, in the black stillness.

And like he knew Daryl was up, Merle started talking:

"It's ok."

The wind blew out hard, then. Fluttered the oiled dropcloth that stood in for a door. Daryl burrowed into himself. Tried to shelter from the bitter draft that flowed over him from the entry. And there was only one thing he could say:

"It ain't."

Merle snorted.

"The _fuck_ it ain't."

The wind picked up even harder, then—like it was trying to argue with him. And all at once, it tore the canvas right off the doorway. A rush of bitter air flooded the room.

And Merle took that as some kind of personal challenge. He pounded his fist on the dirt. Let out an angry grunt.

Then he got up, and went out to fix the door, without a word.

* * *

The rain beat down on Daryl's head. Flooded over him. The metallic taste of it stung in his mouth.

Merle's body was still in the dugout.

He looked down at his own hands—caked with wet trails of sweat and dirt. His pants—mended and re-mended and _still_ hanging in tatters, no matter how hard he'd tried to keep them wearable. And all at once, it hit him head on—as fast and cold as the rainstorm.

It was all shit. They lived in a pile of _shit_.

And Merle was dead inside the shithole. He was in there with his eyes wide open, dead as fuck.

Something moved in front of Daryl's face—pulled him back to himself, a second. There was a worm on the ground, in front of the log. He didn't know if it was _his_ worm—the one he'd saved, before. But it was crawling right next to the toe of his boot. Moving directly into the soppy stream of ash that used to be Merle's fire.

He watched it crawl along. It'd get washed away in the current. But he didn't reach out to save it, this time. He felt like his arms didn't work.

He'd have to kill Merle's brain. That was certain. He was damned lucky Merle hadn't turned already.

Daryl hadn't seen a walker in years—and he didn't want to change that streak with his brother.

He turned—looked at the dugout, at his back. The brush obscuring the entryway. The hard rain running down the sides of the hill—beating stalks of grass into the sod.

_Maybe… maybe you _don't _turn, anymore. Maybe that all stopped a long time ago. Maybe Merle—maybe Merle'll just stay dead…_

Daryl sighed. After a moment, he forced himself upright. There was no room for _maybe_ with this.

He drew his hunting knife. Took a deep breath, and went back inside.

The worm drowned.

* * *

It wasn't all bad, out here with Merle.

The days blurred together, and time passed on so smoothly and softly that Daryl didn't notice it rolling by. Over time, he forgot most of his old life—it was just him and Merle. Simple. Easy.

Their daddy was gone. The world was gone. And mostly, things were ok.

One summer night stood out to him, as he went back in the dugout, to take care of Merle.

The two of them were naked, in the deep part of the creek, in the moonlight. Wading in the cool, black water, with the humid night air all around them.

The stars were bright and clear. The milky way glowed in bright relief against the black nothingness beyond it.

And Merle was standing in the current, right next to him. He looked thinner than he had, before. You could see his ribs, a little. His muscles where whipcord tight against the bone. The skin sagged at his sides, and his cheeks were hollow.

They didn't eat so good, out here—and neither of them were getting any younger.

But most of the time, none of that mattered, to Daryl. Merle smiled at him—and his _eyes_. They were really, completely alive. He was happy out here—in a way he'd never been before.

Merle threw himself backwards with a splash, and howled at the moon.

* * *

If Daryl was honest, Merle'd been dying by inches for the better part of a year.

They both knew it. He'd been getting even thinner, lately. Weaker. And sometime in the spring, he'd started coughing up _stuff_. Stuff that looked black and sticky, like old blood.

It might've been lung cancer. Merle never said so, but Daryl could tell that's what _he_ thought was going on. But they didn't know—not for sure. Didn't have a way to find out.

They never said a word about it, to each other. Daryl didn't ask how Merle felt about the whole thing. He just stamped down any worries that came to mind, whenever they popped up.

Like so many other things, it was just too horrible to contemplate.

* * *

One night, a few months ago, the spring weather had finally come to their valley. The air smelled like flowers, and the evening wind was so warm and gentle, neither of them wanted to go to sleep.

So they sat up, together. And after a while, Merle decided to take that _thing_ off his arm. The prosthetic he used, over the severed stump. He still wore that almost all the damn time. Like a point of pride. Like if he didn't have it on, he'd be naked.

But _that_ night, he pulled at the straps with his left hand—awkwardly. One after the other. And it fell onto the dirt beside the log.

Then, Merle spoke up:

"When it happens…"

He trailed off, again. Let out a grunt. Rubbed at his skin, bit. Daryl knew Merle made that prosthetic himself—and it never fit him too well. The firelight showed the deep sores the thing dug into his body—red lines, scarred deep into the flesh, tracing the outline of its metal seams.

Merle stared into the fire.

"When it happens," he said, "You take me home."

Daryl looked away. Felt a flash of panic—fear that Merle was going to talk about _it_. Talk about how sick he'd been getting.

Daryl would sooner punch him in the face than have that conversation.

Merle pressed on:

"Daryl? You take me home. Put me in the ground _at home_."

Daryl didn't punch him in the face, after all. Just squinted at him, from the side:

"Home?"

He was confused—that made no _sense_. As far as Daryl knew, they were _already_ home.

"Take me to our Daddy's yard. Under the oak with the tire swing. You do that. You hear me?"

That had to be at least fifty miles away.

"Daryl," Merle said. And Daryl could feel his eyes on him.

"Daryl. You promise me."

Daryl picked up a stick. Turned it around in his fingers. Didn't look up.

Merle bolted upright. So fast that he kicked the prosthetic across the dirt:

"_Daryl_. _Promise me_."

Daryl breathed in, hard.

"Ok," he said, still looking down, "Ok, Merle. I promise."

* * *

Daryl had his brother wrapped in blankets, now—with one of their tarps for the outermost layer.

He had to get Merle ready for what came next.

Daryl didn't have much to use to tie it all up—so he used the ropes from their animal snares. Took them down, one by one—and kept count as he did it. Wanted to make sure he got _all_ of them. He had no idea how long he'd be gone. Any animals those snares trapped would die in them, and rot. And that'd be a waste.

You shouldn't kill stuff if you don't have to.

He'd had to roll Merle off his bedding, to wrap him in all that stuff. Merle slept on his side, with his right arm pressed across his body. And when Daryl tried to pull his arm down, it was _stiff_. So stiff it wouldn't budge.

In the end, Daryl had to leave it there—cleaved against Merle's chest. The prosthetic was still on that arm. Daryl couldn't get it off.

He tied up the bundle—lashed the ropes together, and bound it up tight.

Hot tears were running down his face—meeting at his nose. They mingled with the snot, and started dripping down onto his brother's chest.

* * *

Daryl dragged the body behind him, and left the camp. Left the way he'd first came—all those years ago.

Before noon, he'd pulled the thing further than he'd ever been for years.

Sometimes _Merle_ would range pretty far—when they needed supplies you couldn't build from what grew in the mountains. When a knife blade broke, or the works for the crossbow. Merle'd go, and come back, and he'd tell Daryl what he saw out there.

Every time, it was the same. The world was still overrun. Walkers and walkers and walkers—everywhere. He barely made it back alive, once or twice. And through all of it, Merle didn't say much about seeing any people.

Daryl figured there really _weren't_ any, anymore. Maybe a few, here and there, hiding like animals in some hole.

But the rest were gone.

More than once, Merle said the same thing, about those trips:

"That place is dead, baby brother. We're better off here."

Daryl was almost afraid to ask for more details—was grateful, in a way, that _he_ wasn't the one who went out. That he stayed behind to guard the camp, instead. With what it must be like for anyone out there—for the people Daryl'd left at that prison…

It wasn't something he wanted to see.

Everything would be rotting, by now. Slowly fading away. And with Merle around, Daryl was too much of a coward to face that.

Now, he'd _have_ to face it. There was no choice. He'd made a promise, and he had to keep it.

* * *

He'd made it a couple miles or so, by the late afternoon—straight up one of the larger foothills. It was a lot shorter than going around. But Merle… he was _heavy_. Pulling him was already making Daryl's back ache. His hands burned from holding onto the rope.

The rain was hard and cold. Daryl was shivering. And Merle—he kept getting slogged down in the mud. Daryl had to tug hard to drag him through it. So hard he was gasping for breath.

It took _ages_ to move him, this way. It was inches at a go. And doubts jabbed at Daryl, the whole time.

_You really plan on doing this? You think you even can?_

"Shut up," he said, to no one in particular.

He'd just stabbed his own brother in the head. He'd get through this, too.

But still… there were countless miles to go, from here.

Daryl let the rope go, a moment, and sank down on the ground. He was exhausted. A day ago, everything was normal. Now, nothing would be normal again.

All he had was the promise.

He tried to catch his breath. From up there, he could see the valley where he'd lived. The fog filled up the lowland. Hiding the dugout from view, and softly wrapping its way around the trees.

Daryl got up again. He'd always get up again. And he turned his back on his home. Started out into the world, dragging that heavy weight behind him.


	3. Acheron

_Hello, friends! I'm back from Walker Stalker Chicago, and I have a new chapter for you, today. _

_I also have a favor to ask-this con was my very first cosplaying adventure. I was Beth Greene-and I'm thrilled with how the costume came out. Me and my cosplay-partner are currently in second place for the social media costume contest. If you wouldn't mind doing it, could you please please please go vote for us? I can't provide a direct url here, but if you go to my tumblr (name of Praxid) and scroll around, you'll find a link. Just go to Facebook from that link, get to the photo of me and my partner in crime, and click 'like'. I'd be very, very, very, very grateful!_

_And now... what Daryl finds in the great beyond. What remains of his world, and who he may discover living in it. Enjoy!_

* * *

_Acheron_

Murky darkness settled slowly over the hills. The trees were blue shapes in the fog. And the rain kept falling.

It got colder. The wet seeped into Daryl's bones. His knees ached. His right shoulder was throbbing—took the brunt of Merle's weight, with the rope slung over it. If he didn't have his old, leather vest on—the one with dirty, soiled wings—the rope would be cutting into his skin.

Daryl stopped, a moment. Brushed the wet hair out of his eyes. Breathed in—hard. Braced, and tugged at the rope, again. The weight dug into his shoulder—hard and unrelenting. The rope burned on his hands.

He got Merle another few inches, that way.

Then he stopped, again. Breathed hard. Tugged at the rope.

Over and over and over. Inch by inch, Daryl pulled Merle further along. The water flooded his worn, impossibly old work boots. Through the years, he patched the soles back together with tallow—but it couldn't keep this water out.

It was going to be a flood. A terrible flood, like the Bible lady talked about in Sunday school—when he was too young to tell her to shove that doom-and-gloom bullshit up her ass.

* * *

At dusk, he saw something in the distance. A shape, through the rain-drenched trees.

He squinted. Slowly tugged Merle closer to whatever it was, over there.

It turned out to be a deer stand. A little, three-walled shack—propped up on stilts. There was a ladder leading into the shelter, up above the ground.

The thing was solid. Old, but still standing. A _real_ thing. One some real person built.

_He_ hadn't built that. Merle hadn't built it. And Daryl—he hadn't seen something someone else had made for a long, long time.

Daryl got so distracted, looking at it, that he let the rope go slack. It slid out of his hands, over his shoulder, and onto the muddy ground.

* * *

That night, Daryl didn't sleep in the deer stand.

He couldn't carry Merle up the ladder. He was just too heavy. And Daryl… he really couldn't leave him down below, alone. Didn't want to.

It was the first night—the first one out in the world. He couldn't spend it without his brother. They'd slept side by side for years.

Everything else was different, this night. He didn't want _that_ to be different, too.

So he dragged Merle underneath the thing. Sat there in the close space, below—leaning against a support beam, and sheltering from the rain.

It was cold and wet. And Daryl knew he couldn't get a fire going—there was nothing dry around anywhere. He didn't even think of making an _attempt_. But he was drying off, best he could, here, sheltered under the rough-hewn beams. The rain poured down around them—in heavy sheets, drained off from the roof.

And Daryl had trouble falling asleep, that night.

He had Merle right next to him—there wasn't much room. When Daryl shifted in place, the plastic tarp rustled a little. The one he'd bound up around his brother. Every time he heard the noise, it reminded Daryl what was hidden underneath it.

So he tried to fill the quiet, as best he could:

"Remember when you put up that tire swing?" Daryl asked, looking out into the murky darkness of the rainy night.

The tire swing. The one hanging on the oak tree, in the front yard. That was the destination—where the two of them were headed. Where Daryl had to go.

He could hear Merle's voice, making him promise to do it:

_Take me to our Daddy's yard. Under the oak with the tire swing. You do that. You hear me?_

Yes, Daryl heard him. He couldn't _stop_ hearing him, even now that Merle was dead.

It was hard to think about. Daryl tried to shake it off. To fill the void around him with his own voice.

"When we got that swing… it was back when I was still pretty little. They let you out of juvie when Mama burned up in the fire. _Compassionate release_, or some bullshit like that. Some fancy name for 'get-out-of-jail-free-cause-your-mom's-dead."

That was what it was like, back when the world was alive and normal and went about its business. You only got cut a break when it was too late to do fuckall _with_ it.

"So yeah. They let you out. I _guess _that's what happened, anyway. Nobody told me nothin' 'bout _anythin'_, back then. But when she burned… you came home, after."

The memory was pouring back to him, now. As if it came back stronger with the miles he crossed. The closer Daryl got to the borders of the wilderness, the closer he got to his old life, long before any of this had happened.

"I hadn't seen you in _so long_, too. Felt like forever. And I remember—I remember you comin' up the walk—all alone. No state-prison people to drop you off or anythin' like that. Must've caught a bus or hitched or somethin'. And I was lookin' out the window, right when you got there. In the trailer Daddy set up in front. While they worked on fixin' up the house from the fire."

And Daryl chuckled.

"Remember that thing? The trailer? Sharin' that tiny-ass tin-can with Daddy… man… that was _not_ a good summer."

He shook his head.

"But when you got back, that's where we were livin'. When you showed up… remember how you had that tire under your arm? Don't know where you _got_ that thing—but you brought it for me. Said you'd put up a swing. And I remember thinkin' how you got so _tall_, since I last saw you. You really sprung up, while you were away. Got older."

He trailed off. The rain kept on and on. White noise in the blackness. It was like there was nothing _out_ there. Like there was nothing but this cold, dark space. And Daryl. And Merle.

That started unsettling him, so Daryl got back to reminiscing:

"Guess you wanted to do somethin' for me. To make up for not bein' there. But man—I hope you don't mind me sayin'… that tire was a _shitty_ gift. Thing smelled funny. And you could see the wires pokin' through the rubber. Did you—did you just take it off some truck on the side of the _road_? And even if it'd been new… I was _way_ too big for that thing, when you brought it home. I remember kinda gettin' embarrassed by it—it was baby stuff. You forgot I was gettin' older, too."

Daryl got quiet, for a moment. Thought about that tire. How far did Merle have to walk to get it home? How far did he carry that pathetic toy along, just so he could hang it from the oak tree?

"So I didn't _want_ the damned thing… but somehow, we never took it down…"

Without realizing it, Daryl rested his hand across Merle's body. On his chest—right over his heart

"Bet it's still hangin' there… if the rope ain't broke."

* * *

Daryl finally drifted off. And he dreamed of the things that came before.

The tire swing, hanging on the oak tree, in front of Daddy's house. The trailer there, sagging into the mud on its cinder blocks. The house itself—torn in half by the fire. Charred and black at one side. Fresh and normal, at the other.

And he saw the prison. The bars of the cells. The light sifting through the windows, onto cool, concrete floors.

He could hear footsteps, in the hallways. A man talking—a confident voice, with the familiar, southern twang.

And a little while before that. An open space. A girl, singing somewhere, in the distance. The voice echoed in the shadows. Mingled with the sound of a crackling fire, far away.

And then there were hands. Lovely, feminine hands.

He stood on a high ledge—he wasn't sure what it _was_, but he could see the prison grounds, all around him. The light of a fire, in the distance, and some others crowded around it.

And the woman. She was trying to climb up. He leaned down, and took one of those hands, and helped her.

And then before that. Months before the prison yard. He was somewhere inside. Safe. A warm, yellow glow filtered over the bedsheets, where he was resting. The kind of light cast by lamps, way back when he was acquainted with such things.

She stood in front of him. He couldn't see her—it was all murky. Unclear. But she was saying something. He couldn't hear what it was.

But then she leaned in, and kissed him. On the side of his brow.

The feeling of her lips lingered a moment—warm. Soft. A gentle breath flowed over his skin.

Daryl woke. The dream lingered in the air. The scent of someone clean and feminine, so close…

He felt something stirring, then. His pulse was quick—fluttering and tremulous beneath his skin.

The dream upset him. He didn't dream of women—not anymore.

That part of him went dry, long ago.

* * *

By the third day, he started looking for the dirt tracks—the ones he and Merle used when they came into the forest.

He looked, but he couldn't find anything. Every so often, there was a collapsed foundation. But no trails. No footpaths. It was all thick underbrush, and tall trees.

The rest was gone. Grown over entirely.

* * *

Dawn rose on a grey morning.

It was warmer, and the mist was high. But the rain never let up.

Right now, the sun was fighting with it—some shafts pierced the clouds, as they churned in the wind.

And that wind. The trees railed against the heavy gusts. Threw water down from the leaves—splattered Daryl, on the ground, below.

But with how hard the rain was coming down, he barely noticed.

And Daryl kept on moving. By now, the rope left his hands raw and bloody. He did his best to ignore it.

And an hour or so after sunrise, he came to a clearing. And right away, he saw a buck, standing there. They were face to face.

Its dun-brown coat was soaked full over with rain. It dripped off the antlers. And there was an old wound dug into the fur. Angry red scar tissue, that never really healed.

The thing was weak. Pretty thin, given its size.

It'd seen better days.

The scar on that creature… it was _nasty_. It raked all along the right side. Left a raw gash across the pelt. And Daryl couldn't get close enough to be sure—but he thought it might be infected.

That's how the old ones tend to die—if nothing else gets 'em first. Another buck could do something like that. thing might've been hurt in a fight over a doe, back in the late autumn, when it was time to mate. Long, long months ago.

And Daryl could've shot it. He had his crossbow, after all. And it'd be an easy kill.

But somehow, it didn't feel right.

So Daryl waited. Watched it standing there, anxiously watching him.

After a while, it tossed its head at him. Shook its rack. Huffed, once, and leapt silently away.

* * *

On the fifth day, Daryl came on a separation in the trees. A strip of empty space, cutting straight through the wilderness.

He stepped out into it—knee deep in ferns. Right away, he could feel the ground was different, there. Those ferns were tearing up a thin layer of old, crumbling asphalt.

After a moment, Daryl was sure of it.

This was a _road_.

He knelt down. Tugged at the brush and pulled it aside. And sure enough, there was a double yellow line, painted right through the center.

* * *

The forests dwindled pretty quickly, after that. And the dead remains of the world rose up beyond them.

Daryl started seeing houses. Mangled things, with caved-in roofs. Broken windows. Old siding, falling away from the walls like scales.

And he got wary. Nervous. Waited for the walkers to come.

After all this time, the idea of fighting one filled him with a humiliating sense of dread. He'd been safe and secure for so long… he'd become a fucking coward.

He felt like he was projecting that, somehow. That the whole world around him could sense his fear. So Daryl kept turning towards the body he was dragging—towards Merle—and expecting him to _laugh_.

But ready or not, the walkers were coming. So Daryl tried to brace himself.

But the whole first day… there was nothing. Nothing at all.

He found faded signs, standing on metal posts. Signs for upcoming towns. And not long after, he started seeing more and more things men had made.

When he got to the first town, it was all quiet. Just an empty row of houses and shops—in various stages of decay. The sound of the rain beat on and on—the only sound he could hear.

There were piles of bones, here and there, lying out on the broken pavement. And Daryl could see more, out in the yards—tangled up in dense grass.

Hollow buildings. Empty windows. And nothing, and nothing, and nothing.

He looked at Merle a long time, right before he put that first town at his back. Merle said… he'd said it was all _overrun_.

And looking at the body, wrapped in its tarp… Daryl could almost hear Merle's voice. The bitter chuckle—before he'd shake his head, and shrug.

_C'mon little brother, don't look at me like that… _

He'd spread his arms, and smile. And he'd laugh that Merle-laugh, and keep on talking:

_Would I lie to you?_

* * *

By the sixth day, the smell was getting really, really bad. So bad that Daryl couldn't breathe at night, sleeping next to the corpse.

So he ripped the sleeves off his shirt, so he could cover his face with something. When he did it, he noticed the demon tattoo on his bicep. Somehow, it took him by surprise—almost like he'd forgotten it was there. It drooped with the skin—the ropey veins. Its expression seemed reproachful.

But he ignored that, and tore the fabric without much concern.

He tied one of the sleeves around his face—to filter out the worst of the stink. Used the other to make bandages, so he could bind up his bloody hands.

By now, they were absolutely mangled. Pulling the rope was a constant, terrible pain.

Daryl did all that right in the middle of a street—totally certain he was alone. A set of semi-intact row-houses made a line on either side, but he completely ignored them.

He didn't see the shape in one of the second-story windows—a lone figure, looking down at him, from above.

* * *

The towns started getting coming closer and closer together. And the rain never stopped.

There was flooding. He'd go one way, and have to turn around. He'd see pieces of debris, floating along—broken siding, from old houses. Bits of trash. The drains had been clogged with leaves years ago. They were useless to stop any of it.

Finally, Daryl found an old canoe in a garage—one that wasn't falling apart, just yet. He got Merle in it—lifted him, as best he could.

He'd be easier to move, if Daryl didn't have to drag him through the water.

So when he had all that ready, Daryl waded through a main street—a street that'd become a river. It was flanked on both sides by tall, brick buildings. Some looked to be in pretty good shape, still.

The flood would take care of that, though. It'd get into the foundations. Over time, the wet would take all of those buildings down.

Every so often, his boot would hit something, in the water—something light. Easy to knock away. Daryl was pretty sure they were bits of old bone.

But he kept on going. Bone couldn't hurt you. So he held onto the prow, and pulled the canoe along behind him. A pathetic, dirty, underfed Charon—ferrying Merle to the other side.

* * *

He found dry land, again.

And with it, Daryl found the dried-up remains of _hundreds_ of walkers. A herd. They made a tangled mess in the midst of the road. Countless bodies—reduce to the bones and some black, leathery tissue—melted together so no one body was separate from the others.

Those walkers slowly decayed, and stuck together, and dwindled down to nothing. Fused into the pavement of the main street.

Nobody ever killed them. They died on their own. A withered, rotten river of death.

He skirted around all that, as best he could. Left the canoe behind, and kept on going.

But something stopped him in his tracks. There—on the sidewalk.

A peach pit, on the ground. A fresh one. You could still see some of the fruit, clinging to the side.

But there was no peach _tree_. Not anywhere nearby, that he'd seen.

He leaned down. Picked it up. Grunted, to himself.

_Something brought this here._

Daryl looked around. Scanned the streets. Coldly apprehensive, again.

There were teeth marks on it. Teeth that looked larger than a rabbit's, or a rat's, or a squirrel's. And walkers… he knew full well that walkers never ate this kind of thing.

He felt his gut twisting. The only thing worse than walkers would be—well… _people_.

Someone was close, and it scared him. And as usually, after the fear, he felt a surge of anger at his own cowardice.

He threw the pit—as far and as hard as he could. Yelled after it—his voice muffled by the rain:

"_Goddamnit!_"

It landed in a broken ribcage, in the midst of the herd. Then he turned his back on those bodies. Picked up the rope, again—took a few fast, angry steps. Kept a brisk pace. Started making better time, as he moved forward.

After a while, he worked to calm himself down. It must've been a deer that ate that thing. _That_ was what it was. A deer, living a life in this new, urban wilderness.

With the rain, any tracks it left could've easily been washed away.

* * *

He'd reached the borders of that nameless town, when he found the peach trees.

A whole grove of them—wild ones that spread all through the front yard of a mostly-intact craftsman bungalow.

The people who lived there. They must've planted one or two, before the turn. And after… they went wild.

It was getting dark, now. He was running out of _time_—you can't run from a threat if you can't see _fuck-all._ So he had to check it out. Make sure it was _safe_—that whatever left that peach pit wasn't lurking around, somewhere.

He let the rope drop. Left Merle under the shelter of the tree branches—where he wouldn't get too wet, if they were lucky.

Daryl lingered a moment. Looked at the rain, beading over the fruit. At an old birdhouse, nailed to one of the trunks, with straggling bits of a years-old nesting hanging out the empty door.

He stepped up to the bungalow. Its door was hanging open on broken hinges. And he looked into the dusty, dark space within.

It was empty. Silent. A thick layer of dust carpeted the curtains. The indistinct lumps of abandoned furniture.

Then he moved on silent, hunter's feet, and slipped inside.

* * *

Daryl crept slowly through the living room.

The details were as strange to him as something from a distant, subterranean cave. The neatly finished, oak beams on the ceiling. The stone fireplace. The framed, family photographs, still standing in a row across the mantle.

He'd almost forgotten what things like this _looked_ like. That such things existed in the world.

The dust on the floorboards was undisturbed—so nobody had been walking around, in here. But even so, he tried to move very slowly—so they wouldn't creak. So whoever might be watching wouldn't know he was there...

A noise.

Over there. To the left. Something falling, right on the other side of the closed door.

A can, maybe. He could hear it rolling on the floor.

His head darted in that direction, and he rolled the crossbow from his shoulder.

The dim, evening light sifted through the crack beneath the doorway. He could see a shadow moving, there.

Something was waiting.

Daryl silently drifted over to the doorway. Stood there, and looked at the handle, stupidly. Still, he didn't want to open it. Didn't want to see.

_For fuck's sake, just do it._

He breathed in, and threw the door open.

Immediately, he saw a shape in front of him—a _human_ shape—kneeling down in front of a cabinet, on the floor.

His heart jumped with a jolt of fear. The shape spun around at him, and he immediately lunged to strike.

The thing barely had time to look up before he hit it with the butt of the crossbow. Like a bludgeon—as hard as he could. He threw his full weight forward into the strike.

In that moment, he saw its eyes.

They were clear, and blue—looking up at him, wide with shock.

It was a _woman_. That was a woman's face.

And he couldn't stop himself in time. He hit her—right across the temple. The force flung her backward.

Her head cracked against the cabinet, and she crumpled to the floor—unconscious.


	4. Here and Over There

_Not much to say, this time! I'm enjoying the first warm weather, here. Life is quiet and I'm feeling relatively well, for once. Thank you for your readership. I always enjoy all of you and appreciate the support you give me._

_And now... time for Daryl to realize what a small world it is, at the end of it._

* * *

_Here and Over There_

* * *

_Shit_.

The woman wasn't moving—she was just lying there, sprawled in a heap.

_Shit shit shit._

Daryl felt rooted in place. Couldn't do much, at first, but stare at the floor. And the rain picked up, outside—like it was angry at him. At what he'd just done. The windows rattled loudly, and thick clouds moved across the sky—filling the room with dark, blue shadows.

Those shadows moved over the woman. From where Daryl stood, he couldn't see her face. There was just the dim outline—as blank and indistinct as the people in his dreams.

He needed to figure out what to do next.

_Shit_.

That was the best he could come up with. And the voice in his head kept on jabbing at him—telling him how much he fucked up:

_You goddamned idiot—you could've killed her._

He _hadn't_—that much was certain. Her chest rose and fell gently, along with her breathing. Every so often, her lower lip trembled—silhouetted against the darkness.

So she was still alive.

But he _could have _killed her—easily. Lashing out without thinking, that way… he could've bashed her _brains_ in. And just 'cause he was a coward.

That was the only reason for the whole damn thing.

Daryl's hand drifted to his face. He went to chew on his thumbnail, and got a mouthful of flannel, instead. He'd tied that over his lips, before. Went and forgot all about it—that he'd made himself a mask, to block out the smell as he dragged Merle along.

He picked at the fabric, instead. Pulled at the little fluffy bits that came off the weave. Started wandering around the room, aimlessly—dazed. Then he let that hand move up into the thick mess of his tangled hair.

It was only then that he realized he was standing in a kitchen. It took him by surprise.

He'd almost forgotten about kitchens.

A table. A stovetop. A sink in front of the window—with cobwebs draping off the curved faucet, like a cypress covered in Spanish moss.

He sighed. Looked out past the dusty, cracked window panes. Past the trails of rain running down the cracked glass, and at the dim outlines of the peach trees, in the yard. Merle was out there. Waiting. And he could almost hear him, calling out, from there:

_Hey dumbass_—_yeah Daryl, you… the fuck you gonna do _**now**_?_

He had no goddamned clue. Just stood there in the room. Leaned on the wall, next to a refrigerator. One with children's drawings stuck to it by magnets. The damp, dusky light made the paper glow blue in the darkness.

Those drawings offered some companions, for Daryl. Stick figures, riding stick-figure bikes. Dinosaurs, eating leaves from a purple palm tree. A lumpy, four-legged thing with streaming, rainbow hair. It might've been a unicorn.

He reached out. Touched the unicorn, with one finger. Left a smudge of dirt on its face. Ruined _that_, too—after all the years it'd hung there, undisturbed.

And Daryl knew what he had to do.

He had to get the hell _out_ of here.

* * *

So Daryl grabbed his bag from the living room, and made straight for the front door.

He'd go get Merle, and slip away before the woman woke up. Make a fast escape, and forget this ever happened.

Then a soft sigh, from behind him. Feminine. Quiet.

It stopped him in his tracks.

He turned back to look at her, again—just that same, black silhouette, framed by the doorway. And she went silent. The only sound was the falling rain.

_She could be really hurt._

And he hadn't seen any walkers, yet… but there had to be some _somewhere_. He couldn't just leave her like that, waiting for the geeks like some sort of free meal. Or for whoever _else_ might be out here, skulking around in the dark…

So Daryl let out a sigh. Headed back to the kitchen. Settled down on the floorboards at her side, and waited for her to wake up.

* * *

Carol drifted in and out, on the kitchen floor. Over time, the real world seeped in between the cracks. Dispelled some of the grey nothingness. There was the sound of heavy rainfall, beating down on a roof. Footfalls, shuffling around on the floorboards.

And once, the touch of someone's hands. They lifted her gently by the shoulders. Straightened her back. Lowered her head down onto something soft. A pillow, maybe. Or a rolled up blanket.

She didn't think on it, much—couldn't. She was dazed. Didn't want to wake.

She sighed. Turned. Faded back into the nothingness, again.

* * *

Daryl waited a long time. Went and got some towels from a closet, to lay under the woman's head. Settled her in on them, as gently as he could. Then he took her knife and her gun, and put them on one of the counters—well out of reach.

Touching her was strange. Her skin was warm. Soft. Daryl hadn't really felt anything like it in years. He didn't go around pawing at _Merle_ very often—that was for sure. At least, not until after he was already dead.

Daryl didn't enjoy it—touching her. It scared him, a little. And sitting there at her side, he hoped he wouldn't have to do it again.

Night settled in. He leaned awkwardly against a cabinet, and listened to the rain. Waited for her to wake up.

Over time, his mind wandered.

A few weeks ago, Daryl walked up the old trail to the dugout. He'd been checking the snares for the morning. Had a jack hare hanging on a string, over his shoulder.

And Merle was out splitting wood.

It was a fine spring morning, at the camp. Sunlight poured through the trees in bright shafts. It glowed in Merle's hair, like some extraordinarily inappropriate halo.

And Merle—he was singing something. Soft and raspy, in his way—but somehow musical, as well. That's the way Merle's voice _always_ was, even when he was talking. It had this musical rhythm, as if he was hearing a tune in his head.

And that morning, he sang the tune out loud, keeping time as he hacked at a bit of wood, one-handed:

"_Jump back, jump back—Daddy shot a bear. Shot him through the eye, and never touched a hair…_"

Daryl stood in the treeline. Brushed a mosquito away from his face, and watched. He knew that song—_Old Molly Hare_.

Their mama used to sing it, sometimes, when she got really drunk.

Merle got the axe stuck in the wood. Yanked at it, a bit—but he couldn't get it free. So he planted his boot on the log, and tugged hard with his one hand. It was awkward even to _look_ at it—but Merle didn't seem to mind. Chuckled to himself, a moment, when he got the thing free. Tossed the axe handle in the air, a second, then caught it again. Smiled, like it was some sort of prize he just won.

Whenever Merle got it in his head to use the axe, Daryl got nervous. You can't _work _it right, if you're missing a hand. You really need two for a job like that. Someday, Merle would end up taking off his foot or something, to match the other stump...

But Daryl knew better than to complain. Just let Merle do what Merle wanted to do.

That was best for everyone, all told.

And Merle kept on with his little tune. Over the years, he'd taken a real liking to singing as he worked. It wasn't something he did much before the dugout… probably thought it looked stupid, or weak. But _after_… it was like he didn't _care_ anymore.

Merle had nothing to worry about. Nothing to prove.

_"I'd rather be here than be over there—off through the wild wood fast as I can tear."_

Merle raised the axe, again. But before he could send it home, he started coughing. Hard.

He dropped the axe head to the ground. Doubled over on the handle.

Merle's shoulders started heaving—and Daryl rushed forward a few steps. Wanted to go to him. But he stopped himself.

Merle wouldn't like it. Hated being fussed over. And the truth was, if he actually went and ran up to Merle like that… Daryl wouldn't know what to do when he _got_ there.

So he stayed put. And Merle—he spat on the ground. Gagged a bit, when he did it. Something must've come up, with the coughing.

Then Merle grunted.

And after a few moments… he started up singing, just like nothing happened at all:

_"Wheat bread, corn bread, any such a thing—that old hog died with the measles in the spring…"_

And in that abandoned kitchen, the rain pounded down on the window panes. Shook them at Daryl, reproachfully. Creaked at the old beams above his head. Made them moan. But even in the dark—miles and miles from home—that morning with Merle didn't seem like a memory, to him. Didn't feel like it was gone. Like it would never happen again.

It felt _real_. _Normal_. He could sense the morning sunlight on his face. The smell of the grass. The fresh, mountain air. And for a moment, it _was_ daylight, and the sky _was_ clear, and Merle was working out in the dugout yard. He wasn't lying outside in the peach trees, alone in the rain.

And in that old kitchen, sitting over that unconscious woman in the dark, Daryl sang along with Merle. Just a little—mouthed the words, under his breath. Didn't realize he even started doing it.

But he did.

* * *

The evening light died, and full darkness set in.

When Daryl went rummaging around earlier, he'd found a box of candles. The ridiculous, scented kind with stupid, French names. Housewives used to light those to cover the stink in the bathroom—as if that fooled anyone.

So he lit a few of those fancy things, and the room came to life. A chemical stench floated up from the burning wax. They claimed to be vanilla, on the package. But to Daryl, they smelled awful.

But he could finally see the woman on the floor. And he looked her over, in the warm glow.

She was clean. That was the first thing he noticed. Wet from the rain, sure—the whispy curls of her hair were clinging to her face—but she was so _clean_. Her fingernails were neatly shaped. Her face was tidily scrubbed—not a bit of dirt on her _anywhere_, really. Daryl couldn't really place her age—though her hair was grey.

The welt on her forehead was pretty bad, though. Swollen and red. Daryl bit his lip, looking at that. Soon, the color would bloom on that thing. The bruise would start welling out, dark and wide and purple.

He may not remember much about people, or kitchens, or the places beyond the mountains—but he knew everything there was to _know_ about bruises.

But other than that wound… she looked _good_. Well fed. Healthy. _Beautiful_, really. Like something he'd long since forgotten. Something out of another world.

She sighed, again. Shifted in place. Her left hand moved, where it rested on her stomach. The light caught the thin, gold ring on one finger. Made it glow.

She wore a wool sweater over a long tunic—a thing that laced in at the sides, to flatter her shape. It looked crisp, and new—dyed a soft, rose red. Had little flowers embroidered along the neckline, in the same color.

It was so pretty, he found himself staring at it.

And slowly… it started telling Daryl a story. One he didn't really want to hear.

That tunic was made by hand. Made_ recently_. Somehow, she'd gone to all that trouble. Had the resources to separate the materials and weave and sew…

So there was no _way_ she lived alone, if she did all that—or got someone else to do it _for_ her. She lived with _other people_. Not just a few of them, either. Not with something like that on her. It had to be dozens. Hundreds. Some kind village.

Some kind of _city_.

So she started calling Merle a liar, long before she ever woke up.

* * *

A dim, orange light sifted over Carol's face. Filtered through her closed eyelids.

She fought it. There was a dull pain in her head, and somehow, sleep seemed better than anything she could possibly open her eyes to. The rain continued. Swelled louder. And that wasn't all. The footfalls. The breathing.

That all continued, too.

At one point, she thought she heard a voice. Soft—whispering out some faltering melody about a dead hog…

Then a peal of thunder broke out—loud and hard. The sound shot through her aching head—bright and sharp, like getting hit all over again. And all she wanted to do was sleep. So she fought the sound. The pain. Didn't want to wake.

But the pain won, and she opened her eyes. Saw a cobwebbed ceiling, up above her head. She squinted. The dim light stabbed at her eyes.

"Hey."

Carol gasped. Bolted to her feet. Too fast—her head swam with the motion. The darkness swelled over her vision and she almost fainted, again.

She slumped back against the wall, fumbling at her belt for her pistol.

A shape moved in front of her.

She tried look up at it—but the motion felt slow. Like she was submerged in water. Like the pain was dragging her down—making it hard to move.

"It's, uh…"

He coughed, awkwardly.

"It's ok..."

He trailed off, weakly. Like it'd been a question more than anything else. And she almost laughed. Nothing about this was _remotely_ ok.

Her vision stabilized, and she could finally focus on him clearly. He was right in front of her. Had half his face covered with a cloth—like he didn't want her to see it.

That made her stomach go cold. It wasn't normal, doing something like that.

And he looked her over with tired eyes—half-hidden by a nest of shaggy, grey, snarled hair. He was muscular, for his age, but very, very thin. Looked at least fifteen years older than her. Maybe more.

Carol fumbled at her holster, clumsily. But her pistol was gone. Her knife, too.

He got them off her while she was out. Smart.

In that moment, her knees buckled. She grabbed at the wall and tried not to slide down onto the floor. Bit her lip. Tried to will herself to stay upright.

He darted forward, then—like he wanted to catch her. She threw out her hand. Glared at him.

"_Don't_."

He stopped. Didn't say anything—and he didn't _do_ anything, either. Just stood there, about a yard away, looking at her like... like he was _afraid_. Like he was a little scared to even stand _next_ to another person.

It was the man she'd been tracking. That much was certain. She'd only seen him once—from pretty far away—but it couldn't be anyone else. She'd been following him for a couple days—he'd left an absolutely obvious trail in the mud. From what she could tell, it seemed like he was dragging a heavy load along with him. And that made him easy to follow.

She'd wanted—she'd wanted to _help_ him. To bring him back home with her, if she could. It seemed stupid, now. She should've kept her distance for longer. Should've been more careful.

After all… she'd promised _Judith_ she'd look out for herself. And Judith was waiting at home for her, thinking she'd keep that promise.

He must've figured it out. Stalked her down. Found her before _she_ found _him_.

_Smart_.

He'd knocked her out, and now he had her cornered. She felt a cold weight in her stomach. People who lived alone out here could get pretty crazy.

Crazy and smart were a dangerous combination...

So she glared at him. Tried to assert some kind of control:

"_Give me my gun back_."

He ignored that. Tilted his head to the side. Tried to talk, again. It sounded like he could barely remember _how_. He had to think of each little bit of what he said, before he said it. And it still came out a jumble, after that.

"Sorry 'bout the… "

He trailed off. Nodded to her forehead:

"You hurt real bad?"

She didn't answer him. He didn't seem to notice. Rambled on:

"I just… I… I didn't know you were gonna _be_ here… and I was… uh…"

He shook a hand in the air—gestured at her bruised temple.

"… you ok?"

"I'm _fine_," she said, staring straight in his eyes, "_Now give me back my gun_."

He couldn't handle her gaze on him. Twitched, and looked down. Leaned against one of the cabinets, and they stood there in uncomfortable silence.

And Carol saw her gun, then—behind him, way over by the kitchen sink. Her knife, too. And on the floor, there was her bag. He must've found that, where she left it in the hallway.

She scanned the room for anything she could use to defend herself. And there. Just at his side. A heavy vase on the counter. Glass, and full of those little pebbles people used to use in flower arranging.

If she could grab _that_, she might be able to hit him with it, and run.

"You—you should really sit down," he said, "And you should drink some—some water."

She stared at him—baffled. He was trying to be a good _host_. And on the floor, at her feet... there was a mess of rolled-up towels. He'd put those under her, while she was out.

This dirty, frightened, half-starved old man. He was trying to _help_.

"_Water_," he said, "I got—I got some, hang on."

She softened, then. He could've done anything he wanted while she was unconscious. But... but he didn't touch her. Left her to rest, and waited for her to wake up.

He was like some sort of feral cat. The kind you saw roaming the dead streets, in the abandoned places of this rotting, empty world. And really… like those feral cats and dogs—the ones that used to have homes—he seemed more afraid than angry.

She couldn't imagine how he'd _made it_ this long, all alone. And he _had_ to have been all alone. She could see it in his face. It was a look some of the long-haul survivors tended to get. The ones she found who'd been out for years and years. It was a lost sort of look. Like seeing another person baffled them. Like they didn't know how to fit it into their view of the way things were.

Most of the ones she'd seen with that look on them—they didn't survive. Even if they were healthy when she found them. Even if she convinced them to come back home with her, to her people.

They just withered away.

But on an impulse, Carol decided to give it a try. Tell him why she was there, and what she could do for him.

"I come from a town," she said, and he started a bit. Seemed surprised to hear her saying anything. A moment later, he looked down at his hands, uncomfortably. Pulled at one of his cuticles.

Carol pressed forward:

"I go out looking, every summer. Looking for people who still—who are still _hiding_. Who don't know how much _better_ it's gotten, everywhere else. And I do that... I look for them so I can bring them home."

He looked up at her, nervously. Seemed uncomfortable with those words. _Town_. _Everywhere else. Home_.

Moments later, he let the words pass through him. His expression eased, like he was willfully ignoring what she said. And after that, he acted like she'd never said any of it, at all.

"Water. Lemme get you—get the water…"

He stepped back. Reached for something he had hanging on a chair—she thought it might be an _animal bladder_. Cured, like leather. Must have it full of drinking water.

And he went to pull open a cabinet—looking for a glass, probably, so he could give her something to drink.

There it was. In that moment, for the first time, he made a mistake. Turned his back, to reach up into the shelves.

All at once, Carol forgot that effort to reach him—it wasn't worth it. Not when she had a chance to escape. She'd lost too many people to think it was safe to ignore a chance like that.

So she pushed forward from the wall, as silently as she could. Ignored the wave of nausea as she did it. Went to grab that vase. It felt like all of it took forever—him turning aside. Her arm, reaching out in front of her. His shoulders, turning, so she could see his back.

And _there_. Right there.

There were wings spread across his back, on a leather vest. Angel wings—stained so dark, now, that they were black like leather surrounding them.

It came together in an instant. She remembered them—never _forgot_, really. Even after all these years.

_He_ was one of the ones she'd lost. People like Lori. Rick. Maggie. Glenn. Hershel. Beth. And so very, very many others. She remembered all of their faces. All of their names. So Carol remembered his.

She let her hand drop to her side. Took a moment before she could say that name out loud:

"_Daryl_."


	5. On Three

_Yet another uneventful update. Still enjoying writing this. I've got it all planned out, and look forward to a summer of writing with you lovely folks as my company. Enjoy!_

* * *

_On Three:_

Daryl spun around on his heels—fast. Raked his arm across everything in the cabinet. A row of glasses shattered at his feet.

He stared at her. Wasn't sure if he was hearing things, at first—or if she really said it. His _name_.

But he could tell from the look on her face that she had.

He stood in the shards of broken glass, and struggled to recognize her. He knew—he _knew_ he should know her… but he didn't.

He just couldn't remember.

It set him reeling. All at once, memories of the past started tearing through the barriers he'd built to hold them at bay. Those walls started to buckle and crack, and one by one, the faces came out of the shadows. Like the walkers—long-dead shapes broke through windows and knocked down doors. They strained through in a great mass. Reaching for him.

And he had it. Her face. Her _name_—like some obvious, innate truth:

"Carol."

She let out a little sigh—the same way she always had, before. She even _looked_ the same—like she'd stepped right out of his memory, and into this abandoned house.

The same expression—gentle, with soft eyes. He knew those eyes. He knew _her_.

And Daryl felt clumsy. Numb. Realized he was still wearing that damned _cloth_ over his mouth. Must've looked like he'd been playing at some pathetic, lonely game of cops and robbers.

The robber always gets away if there's no one to chase him.

He absent-mindedly reached for the thing. Missed it the first few times he tried to pull it down. But after he pawed at it a few seconds, it fell to his neck.

So for the first time, Carol got a good look at him.

Immediately, her expression changed. Something drained away from it. Her jaw went slack, and her eyes got wide.

"_Oh_…" she whispered.

And Daryl didn't know what he looked like, anymore. But with her eyes on him, he felt exposed… ashamed of what he was. Started poking at a missing tooth with his tongue—the bad one he'd pulled a few days before Merle died. And he thought of how many _others_ he'd yanked out, over the years. His clothes fit loosely, nowadays. He let his hair get as long as it'd go. And it snarled up real bad, over time—so he tied it back with a piece of sinew, to keep the worst of it out of his eyes.

Even with all that… he couldn't even _guess_ at what she was seeing, when she looked at him. Not really. Hadn't bothered to look at himself for years and years.

She stepped forward, slowly. Closed the small space between them—raised her hand, like she was going to reach out for his face.

But she stopped—left a few tense inches between her fingers and his cheek.

And she let out a noise. Pulled that hand back, and covered her mouth—like she wanted to hold something back. And the tears spilled over, then. Ran in trails over her cheeks—catching in the dim candlelight.

After a moment, Daryl couldn't take it, anymore.

"Don't…" he whispered, awkwardly, "Please don't cry…"

She swallowed—hard—but she couldn't seem to stop.

And he saw himself—saw what he'd become—in the mirror of her anguished face.

* * *

After that, the evening passed like a dream.

Daryl watched Carol lay out a camp blanket on the living room floor—said she wanted to feed him something.

He wasn't sure about that, at first—but she coaxed him over. Told him to come be with her. To sit down.

So he did.

They sat on either side of that blanket—face to face. Surrounded by dusty furniture, and dark shadows. Like some sort of strange, quiet picnic at the end of the world.

Carol took out a canteen from her bag. Poured out some clean water. Lit a camp stove, and set it simmering. And after that, she stirred something in from a vial. He could smell it in the air. Chamomile and lavender.

She saw him eyeing the pot, curiously. And she smiled at him.

"_Tea_."

He watched the little ritual unfold. How she unwrapped the food, piece by piece. A block of cheese. A little tin of fresh butter. Some peaches, from the yard outside. All warm and yellow in the light from the candles.

And then a loaf fresh baked bread.

It was whole and unbroken—with a perfect, golden-brown crust. She'd had it wrapped up in a white cloth, like some kind of sacred object. The thing fascinated him. He couldn't stop staring at it.

It didn't seem real.

And Carol sliced it open with her knife, then. The one he'd taken from her, before—while she was unconscious. When he was so afraid of her, he knocked her out with the butt of his crossbow.

The bruise was getting worse on her forehead—and he could tell she was feeling pretty awful. And she was powering through all of that, so she could look after him.

Daryl looked down at the floor.

"I'm real sorry I hit you..."

She didn't answer—didn't even look _up_. Just worked on putting something together for him. Something to eat. And she held it out, a moment later:

"Here."

He took it in his hands. A slice of that bread. Golden and soft—coated with a thin film of butter and honey. That honey caught the candlelight, and glittered at him.

And it was too beautiful to touch. He felt like he had no right to be holding it at all.

Just then, the thunder rolled, outside. Like it wanted to remind him how cold it was out there, in the dark.

But Carol's voice, again:

"Go on."

He broke a piece off the corner, awkwardly—and it crumbled, a bit, over his fingers. And then he tasted it. Sweet and light.

He closed his eyes. Let out a noise, deep in his throat.

When he opened them again, Carol was watching. Looked like she might start crying, again.

A moment later, she spoke up—soft and quiet, like a confession.

"Judith… Judith baked that."

_Judith_. The baby. Daryl remembered holding her—just once, a little while before he left them all.

"You—you got her…? She's _with you_…?"

Carol nodded.

"Back home, yeah—her brother, too. It's me, and Carl, and Judy. Has been for—_God_—years. Since right after you left."

She looked down. Took the hot water off the burner. Made to pour him a cup of that herbal tea she'd made. Told him her story, while she did it:

"The Governor came—attacked. And Rick… he was outside the gates, when it happened. Hershel saw some of it, from the other side of the fence. But he couldn't _do_ anything… and there were walkers all over."

She swallowed, hard.

"They overwhelmed him pretty fast."

"Rick…" Daryl whispered, "_Shit_…"

Carol gave a resigned shrug.

"There was nothing anyone could've done."

She stirred in some honey, before handing the mug over. And she continued the story:

"I remember it so well… after. We were all in C-Block—arguing. I was saying I wanted to pack up and _go_."

She started raising her voice, a bit—like it still upset her. Like she hadn't stopped thinking of it, this whole time.

"Cause I couldn't stop thinking about the _kids_, you know? Carl and Judy… what it meant for them. Their mom died in that place. Their dad… they lost _everything_…"

Daryl held the cup in his hands. Didn't drink from it—just felt the heat working its way into his palms. Through the bandages he had wrapped around them, to help with how torn-up they were, from dragging that heavy rope.

But he didn't think of those wounds at all, right then. He was transfixed by what she was saying. All those names… they were so _familiar_. Familiar, but far away. Like some half-remembered story someone told him, long ago. Like some song lyrics he'd heard on the radio once, then let fade away.

Carol kept on talking:

"And _Carl_—it was so _bad_, Daryl. All he said was he couldn't stand to be in that place another minute. So I was _done_ with that prison… but _Glenn_—he didn't want to run. Insisted we stay put. And the Greenes… they didn't want to go without Glenn. So… we split up."

She shook her head.

"We said goodbye that same day, and I never saw any of them ever again."

She went silent a moment—then picked up again. Like she was trying to defend what she'd done:

"Me and Carl—we didn't want to wait for that army to _come_ _back_. I mean… think about it. That place took _three_ of us down. Lori. T-Dog. Rick. And it took down those men we _found_ there, too: Oscar, and Axel. Five, all told. We lost _five people_ in that fight."

She looked down into her teacup.

"Not counting you, that is…"

She went silent, a moment—and Daryl let out a little, awkward cough. The rain beat down on the windows—harder than before. Rattled the loose panes, and spat in a wet spray through the broken front door. He could feel stray droplets on his arms. Ignored them. He wanted to know what happened with Carol. Wanted to so badly he actually stammered out something to get her to keep going:

"What else—what else happened?"

"I went with Carl and Judy," she said, "Out into… what was out there, back then. It was hard—just the two of us, and the baby. The first year was hell. We barely survived. But somehow… we _did_. We made it. And after a while, it got better. We found a place. A place with good people. And we stayed there, ever since. And we're ok, now. _More_ than ok. Carl—God—he's got a wife, now. Two little boys of his own. And Judy… this past spring, she started training to be a nurse. Cause she wants to help."

Carol let out a sad, little laugh.

"She's just like Rick, really. She tries _so hard_. All the time…"

The thunder let out a low rumble, and the light flickered on her face. And she looked far away, to Daryl—like her mind was with those other people, wherever they were.

"Judith… Carl. They're _my_ children, now. They made it all worth fighting for. So I fought… and I fought… and really… I think I won."

* * *

The early morning light flowed in from the dirty windows—soft and grey. Daryl watched it creep over the walls, and over Carol's sleeping face.

She was lying on the couch—on top of that camp blanket, to ward away the dust.

And Daryl—he got up early. Found himself standing beside her, watching her sleep. His friend, from so, so long ago.

Of all the people… _she_ was the first. The first he'd found, in the whole world. And he was glad. Glad to remember. To know she was out there. That she was happy, and safe.

It made the outside world feel more _real_, somehow.

And last night, before they went to bed, she'd been lying on that couch—and they had a candle going, so he could see her face. The warm glow of it against her skin. The light in her eyes.

She'd told him her whole story, that night. Explained a little about where that town of hers was—what it was like, there. But… she never asked what _he'd_ been doing, all these years. Didn't pry. Just let him sit, and listen. Knew, somehow, that he wanted it that way.

She'd been gentle with him—and he liked that. It'd been a long, long time to go without gentleness.

So she didn't try to figure him out, or tell him what to do. But right before she fell asleep, Carol looked to him—down below on the carpet, at her side:

"Your hands…" she said.

He had them wrapped in his makeshift bandages, still. Because he'd torn them up so damn bad, dragging Merle along with that rope.

Daryl looked down, when she said that. Could see the dried blood on the cloth. The redness of the skin, creeping out from underneath the wrappings—like the wounds didn't want to be hidden.

He curled his hands against his chest, then. Tried to hide them. And she sighed, softly:

"It's a _good place_, Daryl—where I'm from. We have _good_ people. So it's gonna be alright, ok?"

He didn't answer. Stared up at the ceiling, steadily. Long enough that she spoke up, again:

"_Ok?_"

"G'night," he'd said. And he turned away from her, to blow out their candle. Didn't want to talk, anymore.

After that, he'd listened to her breathe in the dark.

That filled him with a peaceful kind of sweetness. A light feeling, that made it easy to rest. Safe and secure, on the floor at her side, as the rain beat down on the world beyond their shelter.

And Daryl didn't want to fall asleep. He just wanted to _be_ there. To feel it. So he fought to stay awake as long as he could.

But the peace of the thing soon took over, and he was lost. Hours passed in a grey blur, and he drifted. And for the first time in a long, long time, he didn't think about Merle at all.

But morning came, and that was over, now. He had to worry about Merle. He was still lying out in the peach trees, alone in the rain.

Still, Daryl lingered. Looked at Carol, as long as he could. At the cool light moving over her face—sifting softly through the rainy window. At her hand, resting at the side of her cheek. The quiet glow of that plain, gold ring, in the dim light.

She was breathing, regularly. Her face was so calm. _Serene_—that was the word for it. Like the paintings he remembered from the books in Sunday school—back when Mama still forced him to go. _Faces From the Bible_. Stuff like that.

He looked at her. Took it all in—wanted to remember it, later.

It'd been so nice to pretend.

Then he quietly slipped through the front door—off into the rain, and left her.

Merle was waiting.

* * *

Whenever Carol left home, she liked to head out before dawn. That way there were no goodbyes. No one up and about to make a fuss over her. She always felt that was better for Judith, and for Carl. They wouldn't worry as much, when she went out into the wilderness, if she acted like it wasn't such an important kind of thing.

Even though both of them were grown, now, it was hard to stop _thinking_ like that. Hard to stop protecting them. Judy was nearly twenty. And Carl—he was about as old as his _parents_ had been, back when Carol first met them. And he had his own children to worry about—as much as she worried about him.

But even with all that, Carol still wanted to protect him. Didn't want _either_ of them afraid, ever again.

So she slipped out of the house early, that morning. Made her way down the main street—strangely quiet in those early hours, when no one was awake. The streetlights had just cut out—and the dawn was blue and silent.

Carol took the shortcut through the community gardens—out to the eastern gate at the town wall. And she was just about to slip away, when a voice called out, from behind her:

"_Mom!_"

Carol shifted her pack on her shoulder. Smiled to herself, and turned around.

It was Judith, of course—running barefoot down the flagstones, between the lilac bushes. She was wearing one of her spring dresses. The purple one, with the pintucks on the front.

"Hey Mom—wait up!"

She had a linen dishtowel wrapped around a little bundle, pressed close against her chest. And when she made it to Carol's side, she was out of breath. Smiled that irrepressible smile of hers. The one that always reminded Carol of Lori, in those moments she'd been really happy.

Judith held out the thing, for Carol to take.

"I couldn't sleep last night… so I baked you somethin' for the road."

Carol smiled. Took it from her, gently.

"Thanks, honey."

And Carol shrugged off her bag. Slipped the thing into one of the front pockets.

In that moment, a loud roll of thunder broke through the morning quiet. Deep and low. The wind swelled up. Pulled on Judith's hair—long and loose on her shoulders.

All at once, the light shifted. It got grey, and the colors in the lilacs got deep and rich—the way they do right before a rainstorm.

It'd been overcast, when Carol's alarm went off. But _this_… it was a lot worse than it'd been, even a few minutes earlier.

This storm meant business.

And another crack of thunder—so loud it shook the ground. Made Judy jump.

"_Wow!_" Judy said—letting out a nervous giggle.

Carol patted her cheek. Made for the gate. But Judith took her arm, and stopped her.

"Seems like it's gonna start stormin' pretty bad," she said, "So you could… you could stay a little longer, don't you think? Maybe just 'till it settles down…?"

The wind picked up—cold and hard. And Judith huddled into her arms, against it.

And Carol knew how it was—she'd been in such a hurry, Judy forgot to grab a sweater when she left the house.

Carol reached out. Rubbed her bare arms, and pulled her against her side.

Judy sighed into Carol's shoulder.

"Are you _sure_ you really wanna…"

Carol didn't have to say anything. Judith trailed off on her own. Knew better than to bring all that up again.

They'd been arguing about it for at least a week—whether Carol should go out again, and look for more survivors. The worst came two evenings ago, while they were washing dishes, together, after dinner. It got really bad, that night. Judy's face was red, and by the end she was yelling loud enough that the neighbors could hear.

And the truth of it finally came out:

_"You can't go!_" Judith shouted, throwing a dishtowel into the sink, "_You're too old!"_

Carol remembered it, now, with Judy nestled into her shoulder.

Too old.

"Be careful," Judy whispered.

Every year, there were fewer signs of life, out there in the wilderness. The last three summers. Carol hadn't found _anyone_ alive out there. One August, she found a fire in an abandoned courtyard. One that looked to be a few weeks old. But she the trail was dead, and she never found whoever lit it.

So everyone else—her friends, and neighbors… they'd stopped even _trying_ to go out looking. Said it'd been too long—that no one was left out there.

But Carol didn't believe that. There were more.

Because people want to live no matter what. They'd accept _anything_ to keep on going. So there _had_ to be more. Hiding in the dark corners, where nobody knew to look.

And Carol couldn't have that.

No one should be alone.

And right then—by the gate—Carol knew it was time to go. So she gently pushed Judy away. Brushed her fingers through a lock of her hair, and tucked it behind her ear.

And Judy said it again:

"Be _careful_."

"You know I always am."

"But_ promise_."

Carol smiled.

"I promise, honey."

In that moment, the church bell rang out its Westminster chime. Marked out the hour. Six o'clock. Carol was behind her time.

So she stepped away from Judith. Tried not to look too closely at her wet, pleading eyes.

"Bye, honey," Carol said.

And she turned her back. Unlatched the gate, and slipped away. Left Judith on the other side, to shut it behind her, again.

* * *

That first night with Daryl, Carol dreamed of Judith—as she often did. Judith with the songbirds they caught for her, when she was ten years old. Carol dreamed of how she whistled at them, through the bars of the cage, and giggled when they chittered back.

The little creatures fluttered their wings for her, and sang.

She drifted awake slowly. The rainstorm sifted through to her. The thunder—the rain, hard and merciless, outside.

And when she opened her eyes, she immediately realized she was alone. Didn't have to look around to check.

Daryl was gone.

She sat up—and saw she was right. His bag wasn't there, anymore—the crossbow he'd left leaning on the far wall. It was all just dust, and empty space, and grey light.

Carol got up. Looked around. Heard a noise, in the yard. A low grunt. And a wave of relief moved through her.

_He's still outside._

Carol rushed to the door.

And he _was_ still out there—crouching over something, under the peach trees. Working on something on the ground, hidden in the grass.

She looked at him—baffled.

"You're leaving?"

He looked up—nervously, she thought. And he gave her a barely visible, little shrug.

"I got somethin'…"

He trailed off. Struggled to find words.

"I gotta _do_ somethin'…"

The wind shifted, then, and the leaves turned up. The water sprayed onto her face, from the doorway.

"I'm… I'm _busy_… with somethin'."

And the smell hit her in a thick wall. So powerful she slumped against the doorjamb.

She covered her mouth—gagged. Her throat tightened against the sickly-sweet, cloying stench of decay. Carol was all too familiar with _that_, from the bad years, before the walkers were mostly gone. The thick, impenetrable smell of death.

And she struggled out some words, after a moment:

"Oh _God_… what _is that_…?"

Daryl didn't answer. Just looked at her, a moment, before turning away.

* * *

Carol followed behind Daryl, as he dragged the body down the street.

You could sort of tell, when you got close, that that tarp was wrapped around something shaped like a man. She realized that, now. And she watched the feet as Daryl tugged them along—bumping limply over rocks and dragging trails through the mud.

The road was smashed into gravel, by now, and choked with weeds. It was hard to get the body through that.

It had to be Merle.

At first, looking at Daryl, Carol was sure he'd been _alone_, all this time. But he'd been with Merle. Been with him until death parted them. And after that... even longer…

So he hadn't been alone. He'd been with Merle. But maybe—maybe that was pretty close to the same thing.

And Carol didn't really know what to _do_. What to say about what she was seeing. So she just followed Daryl along. Watched him drag Merle over the muddy earth. And Daryl—he didn't tell her to go away. Didn't pay much attention to her at _all_. He had to realize she was following behind—but he didn't _act_ like it.

He seemed totally absorbed in the task.

And there were some larger puddles now—the rain was running out of places to run off. The road was getting waterlogged. There were massive potholes filled with floodwater, sticky with mud and silt. So wide they were like little caverns, tearing their way across the empty streets.

Daryl tried to work through them—waded in, and moved along. And she figured it was because going around each time would've taken _ages_. And moving a body... moving a body was time sensitive business.

Even so... these were pretty thick with mud. Carol wanted to warn him. They might be pretty deep. That could mean trouble.

And sure enough, after a while, the body got mired in one of them, and wouldn't budge.

Merle was stuck—and Daryl stopped in his tracks. And Carol stood there, apprehensive. Confused. And she wondered what Daryl would do _now_.

But he didn't really seem phased by it. Just crouched down. Took one of Merle's shoulders, and tugged.

Nothing. The body didn't move an inch. So he did it again. Again.

Finally, Carol walked over. Knelt down next to Daryl. Held her breath, and took one side of the tarp.

And she caught Daryl's eye:

"On three…?"

Daryl looked at her, a long moment. Didn't really react.

"One..." she said. Took as firm a grip on the plastic as she could. Felt something soft and fleshy underneath it, that she tried to ignore.

And she got nothing from Daryl, still. Like he was trying to decide if he was hearing her. So she kept it up:

"Two."

All at once, Daryl came to life—spoke up—rough and ragged, as he started yanking at the body as hard as he could:

"_Three_."


	6. Broken Arrow

_Hey, guys! I haven't forgotten you-I've just been having a bit of a stressful time. But I fully intend to continue and complete this fic! I really appreciate your being patient and waiting-I could definitely use your continued encouragement as I move along._

_So now for a Carol POV chapter, which I fondly titled in my head "The one where Carol realizes what she's gotten herself into."_

* * *

_Broken Arrow_

Carol was up in her cell, on the second level of C-Block. It was the last time she'd ever be there. All she had to do was pack, and it'd be time to go.

She could hear some movement, outside—footfalls, echoing up from the first floor. Quiet voices. Carl was getting ready, down there. The others were helping him.

Even with everyone down there talking, there was a grim quiet in the place. So many of them were dead, or gone away forever. T-Dog. Lori. Daryl. And now Rick—murdered outside their own fence, that morning.

Carol thought of them all—all those faces she'd never see again. Started packing her bags, as she did it. Throwing in the clothes and things she needed for the road. And she was just picking up a pair of socks—rolling them into a ball—when she heard the familiar sound of Hershel's crutches, as he moved along the metal walkway towards her door.

His shadow fell across her bunk, and she heard his voice:

"You alright?"

Carol stopped what she was doing. Held that ball of socks in her hands. Looked at it. There was a gaping hole in one of the toes—one that had been there for weeks. And there was simply never time to _fix_ it. On the run from the farm, she couldn't let her guard down long enough to do anything. You had to be ready to run at any second. And so Carol kept wearing the thing, and the hole kept getting bigger and bigger. Unraveled more and more every day.

When they took the prison, she thought things would get better—that there would be _time_. That she'd do some mending, in the quiet hours ahead. Maybe sit with Lori, or Daryl—or _someone_—and talk a bit, while she did it.

That very morning, Carol told herself she'd finally darn that sock. She just needed to go outside with Axel, and get some work done fortifying the yard, first…

Carol sighed. Looked up at Hershel—where he was leaning on the door, and waiting to hear if she was alright.

"No," she said.

Hershel came in, then. Lowered himself down on the bunk, using one of the crutches to support his weight. He did it pretty deftly, really. That missing foot barely slowed him down, these days. In the relative safety of the prison block, he moved around like he'd never needed it at all.

Carol… she felt like that, herself, lately. Like parts of her were getting cut off, bit by bit. The only difference was you couldn't see the ones she was missing. And like Hershel, she worked around everything she lost. Kept on moving, the way she always did. Pretended none of it was so _important_, really.

Each new disaster, you just said you'd get through it. And then you did. And then you'd say the same thing when the next one came around. And the next one. Because that's just how things _were_, nowadays.

_We'll get through this, too_. That's what she said. And this too, and this too… forever, without end.

Looking over at Hershel—his kind face, watching her—all that twisted her heart. And she wanted to ask him to come _with_ her—to leave the prison before it killed him, like it killed the others.

If he came, she wouldn't be the only one responsible for Carl, and Judith. Soon, their lives would be in her hands, alone. And she couldn't really admit it… but that scared her. Filled her guts with a cold terror she couldn't shake.

Carol knew trying to convince Hershel to leave would be useless. He was staying for his children. There was no arguing when it came to family.

So she put the socks in the bag, and looked over at him, sitting next to her on that bunk. Wanted to remember him as he was—so calm, even now, with that familiar, gentle smile on his face.

Nothing seemed to frighten _him_. He was ready to face what was coming.

She felt her eyes stinging—wiped at them with one hand.

"_Oh_," she whispered, "I'm going to _miss_ you."

And Hershel didn't answer. Didn't try to touch her, or anything like that—if he did, she would've started sobbing. He understood that—and he knew how little she wanted to lose control.

After all, there was no time. She had to get through this, too.

He just nodded, and got up, again. Pulled himself upright with that crutch, like it was nothing—as easily as he'd used it to sit down, moments before.

"I'll let you finish packing," he said, "You're losing the daylight."

* * *

Throughout that first day, Carol followed Daryl. Wasn't sure what else she _could_ do. If she didn't… he'd just wander away into the fog—never to be seen again.

The body dug a deep trail into the muddy ground, as Daryl dragged it onward. He had to brace hard to pull it through all that—the wet soil, the weeds. The torn-up asphalt, riddled with potholes. Walking behind him, Carol could see his shoulders straining under the weight—so that leather vest moved, too. Tensed its stained, black wings.

Slowly, the towns disappeared behind them, and now they were moving along a decaying, four-lane highway. Open fields filled the space beyond it—flooded, so that the muddy pools of water stretched out wide and far, until they disappeared into the fog.

Daryl didn't seem to care about the driving rain, or the rising water. Just kept heading west at that same, determined clip.

By mid afternoon, they'd made it to a dip in the road—and a massive flood plain rolled out ahead of them, cutting straight through the highway in both directions. Separating them completely from the space beyond.

Carol looked it over. It was only a few feet deep—just enough to cover everything in a muddy flow of water. Some lonely saplings strained out from below the surface—like the arms of drowning men. And then there were the tops of abandoned, rusted-out cars. An exit sign—covered in vines, now—thick and heavy with green leaves, so you could barely see the writing underneath.

Carol squinted at it. Thought it might be warning them to merge left in five miles.

Daryl stopped at the water's edge. Looked out over the slow current. And she could _see_ the gears turning in his head—he was figuring out how to cross, when he had nothing to do it with but his own two feet.

A moment later, he dropped the rope, and turned to the body. Knelt down over it.

After some struggling, he got it into a fireman's carry—draped sideways across his shoulders. Grunted, a bit—straining under the weight.

And he staggered into the water.

She darted forward, then—raising her hand:

"_Daryl—stop_."

He stopped. Turned. Eyed her, nervously. Like he thought she was going to tell him not to do it. Like she might say he should leave Merle behind.

And Carol—she _wanted_ to.

This was _insane_—it would be obvious to anyone. She wasn't sure how long Merle had been dead—but it had to be _days_.

He was rotting to pieces. He should be in the ground.

They could bury him, together. Then she could bring Daryl _home_. He could meet Judy—and he'd be safe, from here on out.

She wanted to say that... but somehow, she couldn't. There was no point in trying. Carol knew that. Whatever he was doing, it was more important to him than anything she could offer. More important than a safety. More important than his future.

Whatever he was doing, he was doing it for Merle. And Carol knew there was no arguing when it came to family.

She stepped closer to him—up to the water's edge. Closer to him than she'd been all day. And Daryl—he darted away from her. His boots stirred the water around his ankles, and his arms trembled under the weight of his brother's body. It was too heavy for him. He seemed like he was moments from buckling over.

It seemed like he was holding the body up by sheer force of _will_. It slumped limply over his shoulders—and all the water caught in the tarp was draining out over Daryl's arms. Ran in heavy trails along them—all the way down to the tips of his fingers.

And that water… it was _stained_. The streaks on his arms were a sickly, purplish-red.

That was from the body.

Carol swallowed the sick feeling in her stomach. Reached out for Merle's ankles, dangling out over Daryl's arm. Tried to take some of the weight off of his shoulders.

"Let me help," she said.

* * *

When Carol and the children left the prison, the others couldn't walk them to the fence. Even stepping _outside_ was a threat. The Governor could have snipers out there, waiting to pick them off the moment they showed their faces.

So only Glenn was going to go—after all, _someone_ had to latch the gate behind them. And as Carol headed down the metal staircase from her prison cell, she saw him down on the ground level—near the door. He was buckling on some of that riot gear, to protect himself. Maggie was hunched over beside him—helping him with the straps.

It was already dark, in C-Block—the shadows filled the place fast, in the evenings. But they had some candles lit, and Carol could see the others, moving in and out of the flickering light. Beth, holding Judith in her arms, and standing at Hershel's side. They were talking to Carl, quietly. Carol couldn't hear what they were saying.

In the far shadows—off in the back, there was that other woman. Michonne. Carol would barely remember her, later. The newcomer, with the sword. She didn't say anything the whole time. She was just a vague, shadowy shape, watching them all from a distance.

Carol reached the last stair, and everyone looked at her—tense and silent. Just like that, it was time to say goodbye—and somehow, it took them by surprise. No one knew quite what to _do_, for a moment.

Finally, Maggie came up to Carol. Threw her arms around her, and clutched hard:

"Be safe," she said.

Beth was next—right behind her sister. Handed Judith to Carl, and rushed up to hug her. When she did it, she whispered softly, in Carol's ear:

"_I love you_."

Carol caught Hershel's eye, over Beth's shoulder. He nodded to her, once. They'd already said their goodbyes.

Then Beth pulled away, and they all stood there silently, again. Glenn cleared his throat. The echo of it bounced off the soaring, concrete walls.

That was everyone. Everyone who was left. Glenn and the Greenes. Michonne. No one else. Looking around that last time, C-Block looked _empty_, to Carol.

The place felt like it was already abandoned. Already dead.

Carol turned her back on all of them, and made straight for the door.

And walking down the hall, she heard someone pull the heavy door shut behind them. It made a hard, metallic _clank_ that echoed over the concrete. Then, she heard a voice from inside the cellblock—Maggie, probably. It was muffled, and hard to make out. Then the sound of someone's footsteps, for a moment after that.

Then nothing.

* * *

Carol clung tight to Merle's ankles, and waded into the flood. Did her best to ignore how much of his body she could feel under the tarp—the boots, on his feet. The shinbones, hard against her fingertips. The soft tissue… _too_ soft. Loose and flexible. Sagging on the bone.

The water was cold—left Carol shivering as she waded in deeper. Over time, the cold made her nose run, and her jaw ache. Finally, the water crept up to mid-chest—and the body ended up mostly submerged, between her and Daryl.

The three of them moved out into the slow current—wordless in the falling rain.

The water soaked into her backpack—pulling at her shoulders. Trying to drag her down. Most of what she brought with her—the food, Judy's fresh bread… it must be totally ruined, in there. Soaked with the muddy water. The fluids from the corpse.

She tried not to think about that. Kept her eyes fixed on Daryl. Sometimes, she'd catch him looking back—then he'd get nervous, somehow, and turn away.

Soon, they were out in the middle of the widest part of the flood plain—almost as high as her shoulders. Carol fought a cold panic, threatening to rise up from her gut—the old claustrophobia she'd had since she was younger. The icy water rose and rose—and it felt like being consumed. Like being buried alive.

She wasn't looking when Daryl fell.

It all happened in seconds. She was trying to get a better grip on the corpse, and she heard a shout. Daryl was gone in an instant.

She didn't have time to register what happened—if he tripped, or there was an undertow they didn't anticipate. The body fell into the current, and the weight of it wrenched at her hands—throwing her off balance, and dragging her under the surface.

* * *

Outside the prison, dusk was setting in. The fences and guard towers were black silhouettes against the early darkness. In the distance, the early stars were peeking through the treeline.

The air was cooling down, and it was quiet. Judith cooed in Carl's arms. It was the only sound other than their footfalls on the pavement.

They moved fast. The yard was exposed, and it wasn't safe. Carol picked out a car—one of the smaller sedans. Loaded it up, got the kids settled in the passenger seat, and started the engine. Then she let up the parking break, and rolled slowly down the walk—headlights off. And Glenn followed on foot, at the side. Talked to her, through the open window:

"Hey, look. I get it. I mean I—I get what you're doing."

She'd remembered it all, later—the crickets, singing in the summer night. The tires, whispering on the gravel. His footfalls, at the side of the car. The baby, gurgling in Carl's lap, as he stared straight forward—cold and hard, like he didn't want to see the prison yard, even that last time. Like he couldn't get it behind him fast enough.

It didn't take long to reach the main gate. Glenn opened it, and stepped clear. Went off to the side.

He looked to Carol, and their eyes met.

"I get it," he said, "But just remember. You can always come back."

Carol looked back at him, steadily. His young, earnest face.

"I'm never coming back."

Then she drove away.

* * *

Carol was lost in the water. All of a sudden, the current was coming at her so fast it was hard to swim through it. She kicked her legs—tried to find the ground with her feet. It hadn't been deep—at least not until now. If she could, she might be able to get her balance and force herself upright. But the ground... it was _gone_. She had no idea how far down the water went.

There was a fast undercurrent, flowing beneath the slower water. Invisible from the surface. Eroding the earth beneath it—making a deep, hidden chasm in the road.

The faint, green light from the surface was getting dimmer by the moment. There was a weight dragging her down—her backpack. Soaked with water, it was like an anchor, pulling her further into the deep. She struggled with the straps. Got them off, and forced herself up. Up and up, towards the light.

Her head broke through the water, and she gasped for air.

Right away, she looked for Daryl.

She couldn't see him, and her chest started to thrill with fast panic.

"Daryl…?"

Clutched at the branches, and searched the distance.

"Daryl…?"

She couldn't see him. Not _anywhere_. The panic started to set in, then, and she shouted for him:

"_Daryl!_"

She was breathing fast. The thoughts raced in her head—visions of him caught under the water. She _couldn't_ let him drown. She'd just _found_ him.

She had to save him.

"_Carol!_"

She darted around—flailing in the cold water. Couldn't see him at first.

"_Carol!_ Over here!"

He was clinging to the branches of a fallen tree, closer to the far bank. Immediately, she made to swim for him. Minutes later, she was at his side—clinging to the branches, full of relief.

"_Daryl_," she whispered.

It was all she could seem to say.

She looked him over—and seemed ok. But he wouldn't _look_ at her—he kept straining to search the distance. He was breathing hard, and his eyes were rimmed red.

When he spoke up, his voice cracked:

"Where—where _is_ he?"

He meant Merle.

And like he couldn't help himself, Daryl pulled at her shoulder—hard and desperate:

"We—we gotta _find him_."

* * *

Carol drove around for a couple hours—aimlessly. Had no idea what to do next. She'd only really thought about leaving the prison—not where they'd go after they _did_ it.

She wasn't sure how late it was, now—but the woods were dark, on either side of the road. Every so often, they'd pass a cluster of walkers. The things would paw at the windows, a moment, and then disappear into the shadows at their backs.

Without meaning to, she found herself constantly checking the gas gauge—coldly apprehensive. She had to come up with a plan soon. If that red arrow hit empty, they wouldn't be able to get away from the walkers so easily…

And Carl… he hadn't said a word the whole time. Judith was asleep against his chest. He just held her, and looked out into the glare of the headlights on the road ahead.

That wasn't good.

So finally, Carol braked. Put the car in neutral, and turned to him. He didn't look back. But he was pale and tired—she could see it in his face. And his lip was trembling—faintly, so it was hard to see.

And that—it made the mother in her want to reach out and hold him.

But she suppressed it—knew he wasn't ready. Instead, she just tilted her head to the side.

"Carl…"

But Carl kept staring out at the road ahead:

"Just _drive_."

* * *

Carol clung to the tree—cold and tired. She'd lost her supplies. Noticed Daryl lost his crossbow, somewhere in the water.

Daryl wasn't moving—and she knew she wouldn't be able to get him out and onto the land if they couldn't find Merle.

She leaned her head against the tree—exhausted. The oak leaves were still green on the branches. It must've been uprooted by the storm.

And leaning there, looking into the branches, she saw it. The rope—the one Daryl used to drag the body around. Down in the murky water below. So deep, she almost couldn't see.

"_There_" she said—gesturing over, "The _rope_—it's caught in the tree. He might be down there."

Daryl looked. Nodded. He saw it too.

"I'll check it out."

And just like that, he pushed himself under the water, and disappeared again.

Carol waited. Counted the seconds, as they stretched on and on. Wondered how long he would try to hold his breath. Half of her thought he'd get caught in the current. Felt a thrill of panic at the idea that he wasn't going to come up, again.

But he did—almost right away.

"Yeah—I see him. He's caught in the branches, down there. Get him loose, and we can reel him in."

He drew his knife. Caught his breath. And he turned to her, a moment.

"Wait here."

"No," Carol said, shaking her head, "I'll help you."

And with that, she got her knife out, took a deep breath, and went under.

The light filtered through from above—silvery and diffuse, over the branches. The current pulled on her hair. At the still-fresh leaves on the oak branches. Some of them came loose with the force of the water, and disappeared into the murky current.

The only color was that tarp—the blue looked brighter, somehow, in the murky flood. She pushed her way down—used the branches like a ladder. The bark was slimy under her hands—it was decaying, under the water, and separating from the wood.

And she reached the body. Daryl was reassuringly close—she could sense him near her. And a moment later, he was at her side. Pulled at the branches holding the body in place. And when he got them loose, he pressed the rope lashed to the body into her hands.

By now, her lungs were aching. The cold was working into her skin. Carol made her way to the surface—ready to get back onto land and be done with this.

They used the trunk of the oak tree to guide them towards the bank. Daryl led the way—a few feet ahead. After a while, he found his footing. He'd gotten out of the eroded ground—was able to wade in the water again.

In that moment, the tree trunk started shifting—coming loose. It lurched forward a few feet—and Carol got jerked forward with it.

Daryl lunged forward, and grabbed her hand. Tugged her towards him. Moments later, her feet were on the pavement again.

He immediately went for the rope—almost ripped it out of her hand. Carol joined him a moment later—pulling at it, she could feel something heavy at the end. She braced hard, and worked against the water. Tried to take the body back from the flood.

The seconds stretched out and out—and Daryl let out an agonized sound. He was nervous. She could tell what he was thinking. Merle might be caught on something, under the current.

Suddenly, Daryl dropped the rope. Tugged at his boots. Got one off completely before Carol was able to react.

"_Daryl_—_no_. This is safer. He's moving, down there. We got him—ok?"

He hesitated.

"_Trust me_," she said.

He came back, at that—left his boot lying on the pavement. And Carol was right—the tarp surfaced moments later. Whatever was holding the body down in the water had given up the fight.

Daryl dragged the body onto land, and it was over.

Carol sank onto the grass, at the edge of a torn-up tree stump. Got her breath. After he finished checking over the body, Daryl sank down next to her.

"_Fuck_," he said. Then he looked to her. Nudged her with his elbow.

"You ok?"

"Yeah," she said, breathing hard, "Yeah, I'm fine."

Once he was satisfied she was alright, he turned to the body, again—lying there at the edge of the water. And Carol turned with him. Some of the lashing had come unraveled in the water—and the tarp was coming undone.

So for the first time, Carol saw part of the body.

It was Merle's feet. One of the boots had been pulled away as they dragged him in—so one of those feet was bare. She only looked for a moment—but she caught a vague glimpse of the sickly-pale, purplish skin. The long, bony toes.

As soon as she registered what she was seeing, Carol turned away.

"I should've done it _different_," Daryl said, looking over at the body, "Getting' cross the water, I mean. But I didn't _think_…"

He let out a long breath.

"We—we could've lost him."

And Daryl got up. Walked over to the body. Stepped over his own discarded boot, as he did it. And Carol figured he wanted to tie up the tarp, again. Cover it, and protect it from the falling rain.

He knelt down over his brother, and pulled the tarp back over the body's bare foot. And Daryl—he was still wearing one shoe _himself_.

He shook his head.

"Merle would've known what to do..."

* * *

Carol told Glenn she'd never come back. But she did. Two years later—after she'd found a safe place for the children. They had a town they called home, now.

It was a good place, and it was safe.

So she felt she _had_ to do it—come back to the prison. The others might still be there. And if they were, they might come back with her.

Then they could all be together, again.

It took a good week for her to _get_ to the place. By that time, the roads were getting impassable—not without some really heavy-duty horsepower, to get you over the potholes and through the tangled weeds. So Carol had taken to walking, whenever she went into the wilderness.

She got there right before sunset—and before she'd even gotten past the treeline, she could tell the prison was in ruins.

So Carol stood on the edge of the tall grass, and looked it over. It was all silhouetted against the setting sun. The shells of burned-out buildings. Scorched, concrete walls. The guard towers were all knocked down—like a row of flowers, after some spoiled child went and kicked off the heads.

There were a few walkers in the yard—slow moving, old ones. And a lot of fallen bodies. But not much else.

Carol looked out at all that, and it took her by surprise, somehow—even though it was exactly what she expected, at heart.

She told Glenn she'd never come back—and she _shouldn't_ have. Looking at the burned-out ruins, she knew the others stayed here to the bitter end. This place was the end of their story.

So she turned around. Made her way back into the woods. There was no point in hanging around here. Carol didn't want to see this.

And all at once, she felt something break beneath her boot.

Looking down, Carol saw was an arrow. She'd snapped it in half with her foot.

So she leaned down, and picked up the pieces.

The arrow was handmade. She could see the marks from the carving knife, on the shaft. Some of the fletching was still stuck to the end of the thing—chicken feathers. And she knew they must have come from Hershel's farm. She ran her finger across them—faded and ragged, now, from lying out in the weather so long.

And it reminded her of something—something she'd never really forgotten.

_He_ was still out there, somewhere.

Daryl.

After a moment, she laid the arrow down in the grass, and left it there. That felt right, to Carol. She felt like the thing belonged in that place.

Like that tall grass was a grave for all that was lost to her, years before.

* * *

Carol leaned against a concrete plinth, in the dry shelter beneath a highway overpass.

She watched the rain fall, out on the road. The shapes of rusted-out cars filled the distance, winding along the highway, until they were lost in the fog.

She and Daryl managed to get a fire going, under there. She was tending it, now—using old newspapers they'd found in some car trunks for tinder. That stuff was damp from the humid air, so the fire was smokey. It burned at her throat, a little. But Carol didn't mind. It was warm, and safe—and it didn't smell like a rotting corpse.

That brought her mind back to Merle. _Everything_ seemed to come back to Merle, when you were with Daryl. He was over there, now—far out on the other side of the overpass, leaning over his brother's body.

And Carol knew what he was doing. Daryl had the body out of its wrappings, so he could lash the whole thing back together more firmly.

The journey hadn't been kind to the tarp, or its bindings. The rope was stretching—coming loose, where it bound the tarp in place. And the tarp _itself_ was tearing, here and there. So Daryl was reworking all of that. Tightening everything around the body.

It was a pretty shoddy job to begin with—and it wasn't holding up to its task.

Carol didn't look over there—but she could hear Daryl working. As he did, she determinedly stared in the opposite direction—out into the rain.

She might have to smell Merle—but she didn't want to _see_ him, too. So she looked out over the traffic snarl, beyond their shelter. Looked over the dead hulks of the cars. They were falling apart, by now. The broken windshields were crowded with weeds, trailing down over the dented, rusty hoods. Some of the doors had fallen off—lying on the ground beside the cars. Like old soldiers who had dropped their shields.

Those _cars_ didn't put up much of a fight, over the years. Just stayed put, and let nature take its course. Let the elements break them down—like they were _supposed_ to.

Daryl wouldn't let that happen, with Merle. It was like he was fighting nature for the body. It wanted the thing _buried_. Wanted to take it. The thing was _rotting_—it was _supposed_ to be left behind. But Daryl—even when the flood claimed it... he dragged it right on out, again.

He wasn't going to let it go.

And Merle was falling to pieces. He must've been dead at _least_ a week. The smell was nauseating—Carol tried to hang back, as they traveled—but she couldn't really get _away_ from it. The stench got in her clothes. Her hair. A wet, seeping, sickly smell that clung in her throat, and hung densely in the humid air.

Carol stared into the rain, and thought about that. Thought about Daryl, and Merle, and worried about what would happen next.

Finally, Daryl walked over to the fire. Settled in beside her. Tried to warm his hands, over the flames.

Carol had been pretty quiet about what he was planning, so far—why he was moving the body. Waited for him to make the first move.

But now, she wanted to know.

"Daryl… where are we _going_?"

He didn't look at her. Just stared into the fire. And he was quiet so long she thought he wasn't going to answer.

Then he cleared his throat, and told her:

"Home."

Carol furrowed her brow. Didn't understand that, at first. And Daryl tried to explain:

"I _promised_. He said he wanted to go _home_."

"Home?"

"Under the big oak. The one with the tire swing. I promised him I'd take him there."

She nodded. He meant their childhood home.

"How far is it?"

"Not sure," he said, "But with how far we've come… not too much further."

_We_. Carol didn't think Daryl was including her in that equation. "We" was him and Merle. And he'd just told her he didn't even have a clear sense of where home _was_. Didn't know how far he had left to go. He just took the body, and moved out into the world without a plan. Just the driving need to make it where he was going.

And he'd lost the crossbow, today—something he'd had since before the walkers came—and he didn't seem to _care_. He hadn't even brought it up.

She looked over at him. The light of the fire on his face. He was so much _thinner_, now, than he'd been when they were young.

His eyes were tired.

"Someone should keep watch, tonight," he said, "The fire might draw the walkers."

He was so wary. Frightened—of _everything_. And she didn't know how to tell him that there was no one _around_. Nothing to keep watch for. That the walkers were gone—rotted away to nothing. That vigilance could only go so far—because there was no _point_, any longer.

She thought of the things she could say.

_There's no use. The walkers are gone. You have no idea what the world is like, anymore._

"I'll go first," she said.


End file.
